


An Ineffable Tournament

by cynicwithasecret



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Awkward Romance, Bible Quotes, Denial of Feelings, First Time, Gabriel has Doubts, Hell is going to have a Tournament, Humor, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Interoffice Romance, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Other, Paperwork, Phone Calls, Protective Beelzebub, Semi-Metaphysical Sex, Slow Burn, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), because i had to, but also just regular canoodling, but it'll be worth it, there's actually some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-07-19 20:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicwithasecret/pseuds/cynicwithasecret
Summary: Archangel Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub are not so pleased that the Great War has been cancelled. While Gabe is having major doubts about God's Plan for the universe, Bee is organising a tournament for the (restless) armies of Hell. Dissatisfied and frustrated, they turn to each other, but will have to get past denial first. These inter-office phone calls are getting increasingly distracting.Something's got to break for something new to form. Little does anyone know what the Ineffable Plan has in store.





	1. "Not for chitchat."

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you read, then warm my cold heart and leave some kudos! <3

_“Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” – Proverbs 16:18_

“This is beyond maddening! Utterly unacceptable!”

It was a sunny day in Heaven. This was nothing special. All days in Heaven, since the beginning of time itself, had been sunny, or at least bright. The brightness shone in through the large, east-facing glass wall of Archangel Gabriel’s office. From where he was standing or, more accurately, stomping in place, he had a manicured view of a pristine white courtyard. Through it, a fluffy white cloud drifted along on a tepid breeze. In the centre of the courtyard stood a crystal fountain with gently flowing water. All things, as always, were in a state of perfect, Heavenly equilibrium.

What was _not_ at equilibrium, however, was Gabriel’s temper.

Through the large purple phone he held to his ear, there was a rather weary drawl. “Strangely enough, I agree with you.”

Rolling his eyes, Gabriel stomped some more.

“Of course you agree with me!” he said. “I’m _right._ We were promised a war, and it should have happened. It _ought_ to have happened. It would have been glorious, the final victory of Heaven over Hell! The end of the world! And now we’re going to let those _traitors,_ who robbed us of the conflict we were promised, just live together in peace?”

The archangel’s white wings ruffled in vexation. Next to his marble office desk, a perfectly polished, designer set of lilac-tinted armour was hanging up, unused. The sight of it made him angry, so he tried not to look at it.

“I like this no better than you.” The voice of Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Infernal Enemy, Lord of the Flies, demon of the very foulest sort, was shockingly sympathetic. “Do you think I am not also gravely disappointed? I ironed my favourite sash. A very special swarm of my best insects was prepared for the occasion. I was hoping to send them down an archangel’s gullet and watch them explode from the inside out.”

Gabriel fingered the spiral cord of the purple phone and wrinkled his aquiline nose.

“That is revolting,” he sighed. “I’m even more disappointed now that I won’t get to smite you.”

There was a shifting sound through the line which might have been the product of a shrug. “For what it’s worth, you would have made a worthy opponent on the celestial battlefield.”

Blinking, the archangel stopped stomping and clutched the phone to his ear. He found himself smiling self-indulgently.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said.

“There is nothing _nice_ about pointing out a fact,” Beelzebub replied, completely deadpan as always. “Besides, even if you had put up a good fight, I would have destroyed you.”

“Ha!” Gabriel smirked rather arrogantly. “I doubt it, fiend. Don’t forget who you’re talking to. No devil has ever bested the Archangel Gabriel.”

“Hm.” Beelzebub sounded unconvinced. “Perhaps thou hast been very careful about picking who to thwart, then.”

“What does _that_ mean? Are you calling me a coward?” Gabriel’s smile faded. He glared out of his perfect window, as if the Lord of the Flies was standing in the courtyard outside, a rotting blemish against the purity of Heaven, with clouds of insects buzzing around them. Blasted demon.

“So what if I am?”

“Then I must inform you that you are mistaken.” He laughed pompously. “I am an archangel, and I became an archangel because of my legendary courage. I do not _avoid_ thwartings, I relish the chance to smite any of your kind. Not that a spineless creature like you could ever understand true bravery.”

“Well, good for you.” Their voice dripped with sarcasm.

“It _is_ good for me,” Gabriel said. “Very good.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’m glad you’re glad.” He pouted, immensely put out by their dismissive tone. Most of his underlings agreed with him without question and having this _stupid demon_ dismiss him in such a way was most disagreeable.

There was a weary sigh through the phone line. “If thou art finished sticking your head up your own feathery ass, can we get back to business talk, then?” Beelzebub suggested. The demon occasionally and unnecessarily added ‘thou art’s and ‘thou hast’s to regular sentences, an archaic quirk which had rapidly lost its charm.

“Fine.” Gabriel muttered under his breath, walked around his desk and looked at the file lying open. Photographic pictures (humans were rather ingenious with their little inventions, weren’t they?) were spread out next to scrawled notes and dates. In the pictures, taunting him, were the smug faces of the traitor Aziraphale and that crawling creature Crowley. The two of them seemed alarmingly relaxed in the most recent set of photographs, taken only a few days after that disaster of a failed execution. The traitors actually had the gall to look blissfully happy, which only further provoked Gabriel’s fury.

“Zzzzo…” Beelzebub made a particularly strong buzzing sound which crackled down the line. “My side are of the opinion that all records of our temporary ceasefire, the two failed executions, and the exchange of execution methods be eliminated. Otherwise, news will only spread further about their immunity to natural weaknesses. Other records of the traitorzzz…ideally should be removed from history.”

Gabriel glanced at the reams of paperwork, rolls of papyrus, stacks of leather-bound books and selection of stone tablets detailing Aziraphale’s reports, deeds and general involvement with humans over the last few thousand years. The collection was not insignificant, filling an entire corner of his expansive office.

“I don’t know about _your_ traitor, but it would be nearly impossible to remove ours entirely from records,” he admitted. “The ex-principality was involved more on Earth than anyone else in his department. His name appears everywhere.”

“Hm. Yezzz…we have a zzzimilar problem. Crowley wazzz once conzzzidered a great azzzet.”

“Do you have a wasp in your throat?” Gabriel shuddered from the sound of the buzzing in their voice. “Put a lid on it. It’s making me very uncomfortable.”

The demon coughed thoroughly, as if dislodging something. “Apologies. I got carried away.”

“Right.” Gabriel rolled his purple eyes. “What does your side want to do about their _abilities_?”

Beelzebub hesitated. “Like I said, they want to ignore it. Pretend Crowley never happened.”

“You said ‘they’.” He raised an eyebrow, interested. “So you disagree?”

The demon was quiet for another moment, then spoke carefully. “I do. The _traitors_ have unlocked very unusual powers. It would be…unwise to simply look the other way. We should be watching them, at least. Secretly, so they don’t react. Lack of zzzupervision caused this problem to begin with. It seems foolish to continue in the same manner. Who knows what else they might zzzurprise us with?”

Gabriel nodded, pleasantly surprised that their opinion aligned with his. “Well,” he said. “I think the same. There should be constant surveillance of their activities on Earth.”

“But what does your _side_ think?”

Ah. Gabriel thought hard about answering that one. But, as much as he hated to reveal dissent among the Heavenly host to the Enemy, he really wanted an objective ear to vent to. If that ear happened to belong to a crusty, fly-ridden fiend, so be it. At least, being a demon, they were in no position to judge him for being wrathful.

“My side is undecided,” he grumbled. “The debate is postponed but ongoing. While good should be ever-vigilant and Heaven is the embodiment of justice, it was pointed out that _prudence_ is also a consideration. Someone even suggested that, to make sure we avoid the deadly sins of pride and envy, we should realise when to give up, and forget. Head Office is silent on the matter. Commandments are being brought up, rules being cited. Well, it’s a mess! I mean - I mean, it’s ludicrous, right? Muddling all the virtues and rules like that. Obviously, we shouldn’t let him go! Aziraphale was fraternising! For centuries at least! By any logic, he should have Fallen long ago. There should be no question of eliminating him.”

At that point, the archangel abruptly recalled who exactly he was speaking to, and cleared his throat. He worried the phone cord again, twirling it around his fingers.

“Wow,” Beelzebub drawled. “How do you angels ever get anything done?”

“We get things done perfectly well,” Gabriel said, and his wings bristled defensively. “We have an excellent system of management, and every decision eventually made is the right one. I suppose your side just wrestle and breathe hellfire at each other to make decisions.”

“Not exactly, but I’ll make sure to zzzuggest it the next time I see Lord Lucifer,” Beelzebub said. “Hellfire always livens up a debate, I find.”

It sounded like they were making a joke. Despite himself, Gabriel smiled. Their dry humour was strangely delightful. But they were still a demon, so on principle he could never permit himself to laugh. He just stroked the phone cord and imagined seeing their lips pulling back from sharp, yellow demon teeth. But that thought quickly began to make him feel strange, so he stopped thinking it.

“If neither of our sides want to watch them,” the archangel said slowly, “then I guess there is nothing we can do about it.”

“A shame,” Beelzebub said.

“A great shame,” he agreed. “Who knows, if we watched them, maybe we would work out _how_ they gained their powers of immunity.”

“Or become immune ourselves,” they suggested.

Gabriel felt uncomfortable again, more so than before. The demon was making far too much sense. He frowned, suspicious. “Are you trying to tempt me into disobedience?” he asked.

“Thou art not worth the energy to tempt,” Beelzebub retorted. “Besides, that’s not my department.”

“Then stop doing…whatever this is,” Gabriel said sternly. “I am an archangel. You are the Enemy. And now that the ceasefire between our sides is no longer necessary, our business together is concluded.”

“Understood.” Beelzebub’s tone was practical but unenthusiastic. “Back to the old businezzz, then. Unless the Antichrist wises up and decides to restart the Apocalypse.”

“Here’s hoping,” Gabriel sighed. He hesitated then, sensing the finality of their conversation. “And,” he added, “since the ceasefire is over, you and I will no longer need to communicate on this telephonic device.”

“That zzzeemzzz logical.”

An awkward silence ensued.

Gabriel tapped his fingers on his desk. Surprisingly, the idea of not hearing the demon’s voice again for another millennium was an disappointing one. Their recent phone calls had given the archangel a brief, not entirely unpleasant diversion from his Heavenly duties over the last few days, what with organising the exchange of hellfire and holy water, checking in a few times after the trials failed disastrously, and so on. Despite being frightful and cruel, Beelzebub had always been his favourite enemy to interact with - their intense, composed demeanour was miles more attractive than the furious hissing and spitting of some other demons. Sometimes they even came across as reasonable. Gabriel had enough respect to consider them an arch-rival, rather than a disgusting creature to crush underfoot. He had been _enjoying_ their combative banter. It made a refreshing change from the perfectly intelligent but rather exhausted conversational topics of Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon and the other high-ranking angels.

“Perhaps we should keep the telephone operable,” he suggested briskly. “For emergencies and other pressing matters.”

“Perhapzzz,” said Beelzebub.

“Only for emergencies, obviously,” Gabriel clarified. “Not for chitchat.”

“As if your _chitchat_ would be of any interest to me,” they said mockingly. “Very well, I’ll keep the phone.”

“Excellent!” Gabriel exclaimed, then realised with a jolt of self-conscious embarrassment how enthusiastic that had sounded. “I mean. I see. Very well. If we must. Only for emergencies. Yes.”

Thankfully, Beelzebub was distracted, because they did not seem to notice his poorly-disguised relief. He thought he heard someone shout and something smash or break in the background, but that may have just been interference. Any line directly between Heaven and Hell was bound to have plenty of interference. They were on different metaphysical planes, after all, and a good service provider could only do so much.

“I have to go,” the demon said abruptly. “No rezzzt for the wicked.”

“I have work as well,” Gabriel said. “Therefore, begone.”

They hung up.

Setting the phone down, the archangel felt quite satisfied. But, once again standing alone in his airy office, with the same bright light enveloping everything, and his celestial armour hanging up, unused, his frustration returned quickly.

What now?

For the first time in his existence, Gabriel truly dreaded returning to his duties. Recently, the vast majority of his time was spent undoing Apocalyptic preparations, reinstating angels who had been taken from their positions, sending weapons back into storage, and sorting through _oh so much_ paperwork. Head Office was being particularly obtuse, not answering questions, being evasive, sometimes completely silent. When he and the other archangels got together to tackle the managerial issues of the day, there was a terrible atmosphere in those meetings. They should have been attending war council by this time, cleaning up the remnants of the defeated Hellish forces, celebrating victory. Instead, they were running through the same checklists as always.

In all honesty, Gabriel knew things could be worse. Angels, unlike demons, could at least be relied upon to follow the rules; they were not permitted to question their authorities. When they were informed that there had been a “major mix-up”, and were instructed to stand down and go back to their jobs, they did so, and humbly refrained from directly contradicting their superiors. Naturally, a bureaucratic mix-up of that proportion was rather difficult to forget. They had been waiting for millennia for the End Times. There had been plenty of time to notice a mistake. As a result, Gabriel noticed that the paperwork done by his underlings had become a little shoddy of late, and complaint memos were piling up, but actual rebellion was still unimaginable. The usual simpering would be less enthusiastic, but as long as word did not spread too far about that disaster with Aziraphale, things would probably return to normal shortly.

_Return to normal?_

Gabriel paced again, getting agitated. Would there be another millennium of tiresome preparations for the war? Even when there was no assurance now that it would ever happen? He tried not to panic.

All the prophecies were wrong. All their hopes of victory had turned to dust.

Why did God allow them to mindlessly follow a Great Plan when the Ineffable Plan was different? Why did She allow any of this to happen? Heaven was meant to win. That had been the whole point of it, he had believed. Not the game, but the winning of the game. None of this made sense. God did not play games with Her loyal servants.

But She had. It had all been a big joke. He, Gabriel, Archangel of Heaven, could never admit such a sinful thought out loud, but he thought it anyway, and internally begged for forgiveness.

Glancing at the large purple phone on his desk, he wrung his hands. All these doubts were driving him crazy. He needed distractions, like hearing that demonic, buzzing voice which gave him tingles all over.

~#~

It was _not_ a sunny day in Hell.

This was no more special than the habitual sunniness of Heaven. All days in Hell, since the Fallen had plummeted down from Heaven, were lacking both a sky and a sun and therefore were very far from sunny. Aside from the insidious, sulfurous glow of hellfire and the flickering of dim, artificial lighting, Hell was always a particularly gloomy place. If one extended the term “sunny” to its figurative meaning, however, there _were_ rare “sunny” days for Prince Beelzebub, meaning that some days in Hell actually gave the Lord of the Flies a reason to be cheerful.

This day, unfortunately, was not sunny either literally or figuratively.

And, to put the rotten cherry upon the dung pile of injury that this particular day already was, someone had just thrown a rock through their office window. The rock had knocked over an ancient Roman vase and smashed it into pieces. Although Beelzebub had always secretly disliked that vase, the insult could not go unanswered, so after the phone call with Archangel Gabriel was finished, they went out and ordered Dagon to punish the offender.

The Under-Duke of the Seventh Torment happily dragged into Beelzebub’s office the creature who had thrown the rock, and ripped out their throat with her fangs. Gerbil-sized flies buzzed excitedly around the room. Beelzebub sat at their desk, and glanced up bored as dark demonic blood sprayed onto the floor.

“Clean that up,” they muttered blandly, waving a hand.

Dagon smiled a blood-soaked smile. “At once, sir.”

The demon, still managing to scream without a throat, was tossed outside as a warning to others thinking of trying anything similar. Dagon disappeared for a while, then returned with a mop and bucket.

While their underling was gone, Beelzebub glared at the phone which sat on their desk. Like most of the furniture in their office, it was black with fine gold trim, and was already suffering from Hell’s natural tendency to cause everything to break, disintegrate or rot. A few fine cracks had appeared on its plastic surface. The Lord of the Flies hoped it would continue functioning. Gabriel Fussy-Feathers would get extremely crabby if it was not working when he called again. And he _would_ call again - Heaven must have been even more boring than Beelzebub remembered, because the archangel seemed to have nothing better to do lately.

Certainly, Heaven did not seem to have the same _rioting_ problem which Hell currently did.

Riled up, thirsty for bloodshed and destruction, millions of demons did not just _return to work_ when they had been promised a war. Riots broke out, more than all the senior demons could quell. The greatest portion of the disappointment was directed at the Antichrist, who really was a great let-down, all being said and done. According to reports, the pathetic child had gone back to games in the forest with human children and throwing sticks for a very ordinary dog. But the boy was the most powerful being on Earth, so there was nothing any demon could hope to do to force him to start the Apocalypse. The armies of Hell had turned on the Antichrist’s father instead, and Lord Lucifer responded as he generally did, by brutally torturing everyone brave enough to question him.

Secretly, Beelzebub thought many of the objectors were correct. Lucifer was at fault for not watching over his own son. The Antichrist would probably not have been such a failure if he had been raised entirely by demons. And now, stupid Satan was sulking in the lower depths of Hell, not solving any of the problems that had started with _his_ poor decision-making.

Before he had gone to sulk, however, the Ultimate Adversary had decided to take out some of his wrath on his lieutenant, Beelzebub.

It was their bright idea to make a public spectacle of Crowley’s trial, an idea which had backfired horribly. At least the archangels who were at that prissy Aziraphale’s execution had the ability to “economise the truth” in public dealings with Heaven. Beelzebub had no such luxury. News that the snake demon was immune to holy water was now widespread, causing panic among the general population. As a punishment for blind foolishness, Satan had clawed off one of Beelzebub’s wings.

It was growing back slowly. Painfully.

The Lord of the Flies had an old picture of Crowley on the wall, and burned with hatred when they looked at it. One day, the slithery bastard would pay.

Dagon was almost finished mopping the floor when Duke Hastur sauntered into the office. Lord Beelzebub’s office resembled a medieval castle, made of stone, elevated above the seething hordes of Hell, surrounded by protective swarms of insects. Hastur had been there far too many times to even react when the flies landed on his slimy amphibious skin to investigate.

“If you’re here to beg me to let you attack Crowley, my answer is zzztill no,” Beelzebub told him.

Hastur clasped his hands and leaned onto their desk pleadingly.

“Please,” he hissed. “You have no comprehension how deeply I loathe that serpent.”

Hastur had wanted Crowley executed more than most, because of Ligur, whose destruction he had been mourning. The main form in which his grief manifested itself was through maggots. Far too many of them, in fact. There had been complaints.

Beelzebub leaned back in their chair and regarded Hastur without emotion. A fly crawled across their face. “Thou shalt have another chance for revenge zzzomeday,” they told him, “when the time izzz right.”

Pausing in her mopping, Dagon looked up briefly and met Beelzebub’s eye. It was the consensus of the other senior demons of the Dark Council that Crowley was to be _forgotten._ Even to talk about attacking him was a breach of that decision. But Beelzebub trusted their underling not to go blabbing about this mild disobedience. Dagon, usefully, rather liked the Lord of the Flies, and tried very hard to please them.

“It is a good time _now_ ,” Hastur complained. His pupil-less black eyes glinted with malicious intent. “We cannot destroy the traitor, but we can still torture him. Oh, I have so many new ideas for the torturing him. And if he causes problems, we can just discorporate him, make sure he never generates a new corporeal form. It would be torment enough for the unnatural monster to be kept down here, unable to see or touch his precious angel lover ever again.”

Lord Beelzebub straightened one of their military-style medallions, unmoved by Hastur’s suggestions.

“I never took you for a fool before,” they commented. “We don’t know what elzze he and the traitor angel are capable of together.”

“If we took them by surprise…”

“The Antichrist may even defend them!” Beelzebub glowered at the Duke of Hell. “We need to know more before making a move.”

Hastur stared at them, unblinking, leaning forward on the desk with great eagerness. His hands were probably going to leave greasy prints. “But you _do_ want to hurt him, then? None of this nonsense about pretending he never existed?”

The torn part of Beelzebub’s back was throbbing with pain where their wing was growing back. “I do not forget eazzily,” they said, deadly quiet. “Or forgive.” There were certain kinds of hatred which never died, never diminished.

Based on his slimy grin, Hastur was satisfied with their answer. He stopped leaning on the desk and strode over to the smashed window. “Then what do we do in the meantime?” he asked, much calmer now. “How do we plan our next move? How do we proceed?”

“Firzzt, we need to deal with that,” Beelzebub gestured vaguely towards the rest of Hell, in its current chaotic uproar.

Dagon, now finished mopping, chimed in helpfully. “I suggest an old classic, sir. Hot tar. Sticky. They’ll get stuck together, tear each other apart in the panic.”

“No.” The Lord of the Flies shook their head. “I have a much better way for everyone to let out their aggression, one which needn’t involve more chaozz.” They waited, mostly for dramatic emphasis, until the two other demons were looking at them in anticipation. “We’re going to hold a tournament,” Beelzebub said.


	2. Totally professional.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel disobeys (slightly). Everyone's acting super professional and not at all weird.

_“There is a way that appears to be right, but in the end it leads to death.” – Proverbs 14:12_

It was possible that Gabriel was becoming somewhat obsessed.

Understandably, given all the doubts he had been experiencing of late, the archangel spent his free time alone, meditating on all that was righteous and beautiful in the universe. Or doing power yoga. Heaven had many gardens, pools and balconies for angels to exercise or sit in quiet devotion, so external distractions were not a problem. Ethereal music wafted through airy hallways. Orbs of soft light danced between marble columns. Under any other circumstances, Gabriel should have been perfectly peaceful. But he was getting increasingly stressed out, and found that his mind would wander while he tried to meditate, preventing any kind of spiritual enlightenment. And, in moments of shame and confusion, he would inevitably end up thinking about Lord Beelzebub.

Planning what he would say in their next phone call soothed him. It was ridiculous, that any thought of a demon could be a soothing one, but it was comforting to have something interesting to look forward to. Something better than undoing war preparations, at any rate. Gabriel found himself rehearsing questions, in ways which sounded professional but felt anything _but_ professional. He was curious about the silliest things, wanting to know if Beelzebub shared his opinions on filing systems, or if they liked to gossip about their assistants, or if they kept anything of interest in their office in Hell, or if they ever organised departmental get-togethers.

Or, and he tried to pretend he never thought it, he wondered if demons ever had terrible doubts about the meaning of existence.

Despite wanting to, he knew there was no actual reason to call, and calling for sociable reasons would be unacceptable. That would be far too close to outright _fraternising,_ and an archangel could never sink that low. Even the temptation to do so reminded him of Aziraphale. Perhaps something just as mild was all it had taken to begin the traitor’s downward spiral; a few sociable chats, a few pleasant interactions, eventually leading to outright treachery. A cautionary tale indeed.

So when he was in his office, Gabriel dithered about, making sideways glances at the phone, wishing desperately that it would ring, or that some legitimate excuse to call would materialise.

Fortunately, Sandalphon walked into the room before he could do anything he would regret.

“Greetings, sir,” said the shorter angel. He was holding a vase full of flowers and wearing a large smile. The top of his bald head was gleaming so much, Gabriel suspected that it was polished. Angels were fans of shiny things.

Gabriel looked at the flowers. “Why are you bringing a plant into my office, Sandalphon?” he asked.

“It’s a human tradition,” Sandalphon told him. “Giving flowers symbolises one’s condolences about a recent event which was considered sad or disappointing. These symbolise our regrets about the war not happening, you see? I gave some golden flowers to Uriel, some white ones to Michael, and these purple ones are for you.”

“But it’s a plant,” the archangel said, not appreciating the sentiment. “I’m sorry, Sandalphon, I can’t have a living Earthly thing in my celestial office. Then I’ll have to care for it, put liquids on it, take it outside for walks. That’s an additional responsibility I do not require.”

With a knowing smile, Sandalphon placed the vase on his desk. “I thought you would say that,” he said. “So I got some fake flowers instead. No bother at all. No watering needed. Really brighten up the place, don’t they?”

Gabriel peered closely at the smooth, purple, bell-shaped petals, which appeared to be made of glass. He _did_ like purple.

“I suppose they do,” he said, without enthusiasm. “If having them is in the spirit of office camaraderie, then I’ll keep them here.”

Sandalphon smiled smugly, and Gabriel tried to ignore him. He returned to focusing on the paperwork in front of him with more gusto than he actually felt, in the hope of appearing busy. But the other angel remained standing there, oblivious to the fact that he was overstaying his welcome.

“Ah,” said Sandalphon, cheerfully. “Is that the traitor Aziraphale’s records?” The collection of books, scrolls and documents was still in the corner of the archangel’s office.

“It is.” Gabriel’s eye twitched. “I’m hoping we can arrange to set a watch on the traitors as soon as possible, get someone examining the old files for anything that was missed. Once we come to the right decision about how to proceed, of course.”

“Oh. Hm.” Sandalphon clasped and unclasped his hands, looked guilty. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir.”

“Why not?” Gabriel abruptly put down the he was using to sign paperwork, and glared at his underling. “Has the debate finished without me? Don’t tell me Michael undermined my authority _again_! I _told her_ the last time that it was unacceptable and unprofessional behaviour, and she promised not to do it again.”

“No, it wasn’t Michael.” Sandalphon winced, as if expecting to be reprimanded. Shoot the messenger, and all that. “Head Office finally responded, telling us that Aziraphale is to be left alone…so no more debate about that, back to work.” He shrugged and smiled insipidly. “At least we don’t have to ponder that question anymore, and you can put away those records. No arguing with Her ineffable wisdom, is there?”

“It is ineffable, as always,” Gabriel said. There was an unusual blankness in the archangel’s habitually arrogant expression, but if Sandalphon noticed, he made a convincing show of not reacting.

“Well, I have more flowers to give out,” he said, turning to leave. “More condolences to spread. I’ll see you later at the staff meeting.”

“Later.” Gabriel managed to paste an approximation of his usual beaming smile onto his face, but the smile slipped off the moment that Sandalphon was out of the room.

So. Head Office had spoken.

And Gabriel disagreed. Entirely. So much that it frightened him.

Aziraphale could not just be _ignored._ The traitor was out there, probably stuffing his face with assortments of gross matter, making googly eyes at his demon compatriot, smug and victorious. Heaven could not _lose._ Letting a traitor go was unacceptable. Gabriel burned with frustration at the very thought. He became so riled up that lightning crackled around his hands, briefly setting a sheet of paper aflame. Smothering the flames, the archangel tried to calm down.

What was happening to him? Was this a test? Another ineffable game being played?

He had never questioned his duty before, not like this. Absolute certainty was replaced with relentless doubt. It felt like losing his sanity. It was terrifying, being so powerless. Why did God not answer his prayers?

Before he even recognised what he was doing, Gabriel reached for the phone.

It rang a significant number of times before someone finally picked up.

“Office of the Lord of the Flies.” The voice was unfamiliar, rasping. _Drat._

“Who is this?”

“Dagon, Under-Duke of the Seventh Torment of…”

“Where is Beelzebub?” Gabriel had no time for the bluster of another demon. “This is important.”

“Which of you frilly birds shall I tell them it is?” The unpleasant cretin had the nerve to laugh at her own bad insult.

Gabriel puffed up his chest and straightened his back as if he had been physically confronted. “This is the Archangel Gabriel,” he said proudly. “Hurry up, fiend, or you’ll quickly regret your insolence.”

“Oh, I’m scared,” Dagon laughed nastily. “Keep yer pants on. I’ll get Lord Beelzebub. Wait here.”

There was a loud clatter, and Gabriel wondered if the rude demon had actually dropped the phone. Seconds passed, and oozed into minutes. Over the line, Gabriel could hear intermittent bursts of buzzing, perhaps the rumble of something moving around. The delay gave him some time to properly consider what he was doing. He spent the time convincing himself of his own sanity. This was the right course of action - _had to be_ the right course of action. Something had to be done, even if it meant a looser interpretation of the rules than he usually liked. And afterwards, he told himself, God would understand his reasons and be pleased. God might even praise his ingenuity and start communicating regularly with Heaven. All would be well again. Soon.

The phone crackled, and then Beelzebub buzzed down the line.

“Gabriel, what a pleazzzant zzurprizze.” The demon sounded as disinterested as ever, but it was strangely comforting to hear that bored voice.

“I have a proposition which may be in the interest of both of our sides,” Gabriel said, as confidently as possible. “If you and I meet on Earth, we can discuss this matter further, and come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Business-like. Totally professional. He was pleased with how sane his words sounded.

“On Earth?”

“Yes. Is that going to be a problem?”

Beelzebub made a clicking noise expressing slight frustration. “It izz not a good time for me to leave Hell,” they muttered. “Zzzo your propozzition had better be worth hearing.”

“Trust me,” Gabriel smiled grimly. “It is.”

~#~

Human beings are excellent at forgetting things.

Some were even capable of forgetting supernatural occurrences which took place right in front of them less than a month ago, including, specifically, the paranormal events in Tadfield Airbase. Perhaps it is just that these humans could only remember what their minds were programmed to retain, because most human brains are not accustomed to containing memories of War, Famine, Pollution, and Death, or other mythical entities, even when some of those entities are making a habit of showing up.

Therefore, when the ground once again began to tremble, bubble and smoke, and Lord Beelzebub rose up from it like a terrible nightmare, a group of patrolling soldiers in the airbase reacted with as much surprise as they would have if the almost-Apocalypse had never occurred. As if they had not seen anything like this just a few weeks ago.

Hearing the alarmed shouting and seeing some raised weapons, Beelzebub rolled their eyes and waved their hand to perform a medium-grade miracle. All nearby soldiers disappeared, probably ending up floundering somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. The Lord of the Flies had not been particularly specific on the details.

Shrugging off some soot, they breathed in the fresh, lukewarm air of Earth, and shuddered. Going upstairs, so to speak, was something they tried to avoid as much as possible. Everything was confusing up here, always changing far too fast, always too unpredictable. There were fickle weather patterns and complex mechanical constructions. It would have been quite satisfying to burn it all and stomp on the ashes. A shame they would have to wait a while longer for that.

Thinking of burning, Beelzebub subconsciously patted the container of hellfire at their side. Suspicious of Gabriel’s intentions, they had decided to carry a Plan B in case the archangel tried any trickery. Beelzebub imagined that, if he did try anything, it would not be subtle. This was _Gabriel,_ after all. His idea of subtlety was probably a thousand angels swooping down surrounded by blinding white light, or something equally dramatic. It would be a shame to have to use hellfire on him - he was more manageable to work with than Archangel Michael, for instance - but a wise demon always came prepared.

A crackle of electrical current behind them caused Beelzebub to turn around. Gabriel materialised in the same manner he did when they confronted the useless Antichrist together, with lightning sparking and singeing the air. In his (mostly) human form, he was wearing another big lilac coat and soft-looking scarf. His hair was perfect. When he saw Beelzebub standing in front of him, the archangel’s face contorted into a rather goofy, white-toothed smile.

“You zzzet me up,” the Lord of the Flies accused him, and the goofy smile disappeared.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “I did no such thing.”

“This wonderful zzzpot you picked? There were humans here. With weapons.”

“Oh.” Gabriel looked sheepish. “Oops. I didn’t think they would return here so soon after what happened.”

“Zzo thou art just an imbecile, then,” said Beelzebub. “Frankly, I believe that more than I believe you would have the intelligence to arrange a trap. Get to the point, then. Why are we having this zzztupid meeting?”

The angel stuck his hands into his coat pockets and looked miffed, but got to the point nonetheless. “It’s about the traitors,” he said. “As we already discussed, they’re a potential threat to the nature of Heaven and Hell. The source of their unnatural abilities needs to be discovered, so it can be used against them. And since they pose a threat to both of our sides, it makes sense that they are investigated co-operatively. I suggest we combine resources.”

Surprised, Beelzebub frowned at him. “You want to work _together_ again?”

“Yes. I do.” Gabriel looked appallingly hopeful. “For practical reasons, of course. We couldn’t have our agents tripping over each other all the time. That wouldn’t be…professional. Would make us both look bad.”

The Lord of the Flies considered the archangel curiously through narrowed eyes. There was something different about his appearance, they noted. It was impossible for angels to actually become ill, but if Gabriel had been human, that would have been their first guess. Darker shadows under his bright purple eyes suggested tiredness and his shoulders were slightly hunched in a way which was uncharacteristically vulnerable. It was a fascinating change to observe. But it was not that Beelzebub actually _cared_ what was wrong with the archangel, except from a purely tactical standpoint, that is.

“The Dark Council has forbidden everyone from even zzpeaking about the traitorzzz,” they pointed out resentfully. “Certain individuals will not be pleazzzed if I start zzecretly zzending people to spy on Crowley and Aziraphale. They’re keeping a much closer watch on all personnel.”

“Oh, right,” Gabriel nodded understandingly. He looked at his feet. “Well, I see how that would be a problem.”

Beelzebub seriously doubted that the pampered archangel had even the remotest understanding of the sort of problem it would mean. Their wings were not currently visible on this metaphysical plane, but the aching pain of the torn one was still there, throbbing away as the skin gradually repaired itself. Hatred filled their veins at the memory of Lucifer’s rough claws cutting into their flesh. No. The angel would never understand. He knew nothing of punishment.

“Zzzome things go beyond obedience and disobedience,” the Prince of Hell admitted.

As expected, Gabriel looked deeply confused by that statement. Everything in his perfect little world revolved around obedience and rules. Beelzebub amusedly watched him struggle to comprehend a world which did not. They could hear small cogs ticking away in his brain.

“So you’ll help?” Gabriel eventually said, giving up trying to wrap his head around the idea.

Beelzebub considered it for a moment longer, thinking of treacherous snakes and baths full of holy water. They wanted to know the answers to the questions which never stopped revolving in their head. But something about the archangel’s intense expression gave them pause.

“Your side has finally agreed to this, then,” they said.

It was more of a statement than a question, but it caused Gabriel’s entire face to violently contort in some kind of spasmodic convulsion, one which was apparently happening out of his control. It was quite alarming to witness, and made Beelzebub stare.

“Yes,” the archangel managed to answer.

The Lord of the Flies blinked several times. “Why did your face do _that_?”

“Do what? I’m sure my face didn’t do anything it’s not designed to do.” He was looking anywhere but at their eyes.

“Are you _lying,_ Gabriel?”

“Absolutely not!” he lied.

Beelzebub could not have been more fascinated now. They were delighted, in all honesty. Hearing an archangel lie was like hearing an infant child speak its first word, or watching a puppy perform its first trick. It was the opposite of a convincing performance, but still undeniably endearing, even to a prince among demons. It was particularly endearing coming from this specific angel.

“Demons can sniff out sins, you know,” they teased him, “and lying is a _sin_. Don’t try to deceive me.”

Gabriel became sulky and thin-lipped. “If you’re such a wonderful lie detector,” he grumbled, “then how did Crowley manage to lie to you for thousands of years?”

Beelzebub shrugged, far too amused to be annoyed. “Crowley was an exception. He was an especially talented liar. One of the very best. You birdbrained angels are too stupid to lie convincingly.”

“I’m just unaccustomed to it.” The tendons in Gabriel’s neck twitched. His face was flushed red.

“Evidently,” Beelzebub said. “Zzzo, why do it at all? Have you gone rogue?” They were just teasing. The Golden Boy of Heaven had made a tiny misstep and witnessing his embarrassment was priceless entertainment. But the defensive way the archangel reacted made them wonder if they had accidentally struck a deeper nerve.

“Rogue? Nonsense!” Gabriel exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I’m acting solely - _solely -_ in the interests of Heaven. Always have. I’m just…acting without their explicit permission, for now. But only for a short time! I can make them see the truth. I’m never wrong about these things. Never.”

The over-inflated bluster sounded more like the Gabriel they knew. The uncertain desperation in his voice did not. Tadfield Airbase was very quiet without the soldiers, a sterile expanse of concrete and telephone lines. The wind blew Beelzebub’s matted black hair into their eyes. Earth was so damn cold sometimes, and the heat of the hellfire against their side made them shiver.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you had it in you,” they said, much quieter. They were not teasing now.

“Nor did I.” Gabriel lowered his head and looked abjectly miserable. Without the angel in any mood to fight back, all the fun was taken out of Beelzebub’s teasing, so they dropped it. There was no point in poking a creature which did not protest to being poked.

“If we’re both going to do this off the books,” Beelzebub said carefully, “then we need to be careful who elzze we involve in this.”

“Right” said Gabriel, as if he was only just starting to think the idea through. “Other people. We need other people.”

“You _do_ have other angels you can truzzt?” They already had a short list of lesser demons in mind who would do their bidding gladly, without asking too many awkward questions or running their mouths openly. Dagon would know a few more. Hastur would be a flight risk, given his desire for revenge, so keeping him out of the operation seemed the wise course of action.

Gabriel, meanwhile, looked askance again. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised. “But it may take some time.” His face brightened as a thought apparently occurred to him. “Meanwhile, you and I can work together.”

“What? _Now_?”

“Why not?” The archangel took an eager step towards them. “We’re both on Earth, and there’s no time like the present. The last piece of intelligence we received placed the traitors in the village nearby, so they’re not far. A diligent angel is a worthy angel.”

Beelzebub cringed painfully at that last line, so horrendously typical of Heavenly mottos that, just for an instant, they were transported back to the good old days before the Fall, listening peacefully to the music of the celestial spheres, dreaming of being sweet and innocent and beautiful and perfect, forever and ever and ever. Disgusting. Thank Satan they had grown up and rebelled when they did.

“Hell cannot do without me,” Beelzebub said, thinking of the preparations for the tournament which had recently been set into motion. “Thou hast no idea what’s going on down there.”

“I have faith that you’re dealing with it.” Gabriel smiled at them, somewhat admiringly. “You’re a competent leader.”

The Lord of the Flies was unsure what to make of the angel’s niceness. “I am,” was all they said.

“Then surely you can afford to stay on Earth for a few hours more.”

Beelzebub thought about it. Yes. They could. While Earth was abhorrent on many levels, Hell was plain exhausting. Perhaps taking a few hours away from the organisational chaos would be worthwhile. Besides, Gabriel looked so very adorable when he was hopeful. Beelzebub did not want to completely crush his spirit. Not because his spirit mattered, though, but because of important tactical concerns. It was for the sake of their business relationship. It was a totally professional consideration.

“I zzzuppose I can zzpare juzzt a few hours,” Beelzebub muttered.

“Wonderful!” Gabriel was obnoxiously jovial. “If you’ll just sign this, then we can be off.”

The archangel produced a roll of paper from his pocket and held it up. Already at the bottom of the page was the glowing, curling script of Gabriel’s signature. Beelzebub, ever the consummate administrator, took the time to read every word on the page. It was brief and formal, merely outlining vague details of their agreement, not holding either of them to a binding contract, not containing any tricky small print. Just a record, to be filed away secretly for future reference. It would save paperwork later on, but that was all.

Despite that, it still felt significant to Beelzebub when they snapped sparks into life and held their glowing finger above the page before signing, holding Gabriel’s gaze. Eyes the shade of lavender, filled with an odd amount of hope. Unbelievably tempting.

How could anyone with a healthy respect for managerial record-keeping refuse?


	3. A stake-outing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shenanigans ensue. Things heat up. Az and Crowley make an appearance.

_“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” – Proverbs 27:17_

Angels do not sleep, and therefore do not dream, but Gabriel still felt inclined to describe that afternoon as an odd dream.

He had occasionally overheard humans describing sleeping or dreaming, so he had a loose grasp on what those activities entailed and what they might feel like. And the hazy strangeness of strolling through the English countryside with Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Infernal Enemy, Lord of the Flies, was difficult to compare to anything else he had actually experienced first-hand.

After debating various modes of transport, they had reluctantly decided to do it the human way, and walk. The option of miracling themselves directly to the village was out, because they did not want to provoke the Antichrist, who lived in Tadfield and might become angry if too many supernatural beings started performing multiple miracles in the vicinity of his home. Better to save up their powers, in case things became nasty with Aziraphale and Crowley. Other options were out because they did not have the foggiest notion how to drive anything - Beelzebub had wanted to fly a helicopter (“The humans never had anything like _that_ a few centuries ago.”), and Gabriel, fortunately, had managed to talk them out of the idea.

So they were walking along a country road, avoiding muddy puddles, surrounded by open fields, forest and meticulously trimmed hedges. Gabriel’s scarf was a bit too warm for the early autumn weather and Beelzebub was looking disconsolately at their shoes and fishnet socks, which were entirely unsuitable for long walks. When the two of them passed some strolling humans, they received some very direct stares. Gabriel may have heard the words “ridiculous hat” whispered when they were nearly out of earshot, but made no comment. He actually thought Beelzebub’s fly hat was rather distinctive, in a grungy, demonic kind of way. It suited them; it was weird and charming.

“No flies?” he said, in an attempt to make conversation.

“What?”

“You’re called the Lord of the Flies,” he clarified. “You’re known for keeping some around, so I understand. The last time we met, before the Antichrist that is, you had some with you. Lots, in fact.” Gabriel could remember them buzzing loudly next to his ears, getting into his hair. His hair had been long and luscious back then. He had been vain about it - too vain, so he had cut it off to avoid the deadly sin of Pride.

Beelzebub nodded and eyed him sideways. “I left them downstairzz.” And then, after a pause, “Which time are you referring to?”

“The sixteenth century. You were on Earth with some of your people, doing something devilish outside a cathedral in France, and I was training some new Principalities nearby when we happened to run into each other.”

“Oh, yezzz.” They nodded, then raised a dark eyebrow. “Five centuries ago? Wazz that really the last time we met?”

“I think so.”

“Doesn’t zzzeem like it’s been that long.”

“I suppose not.”

Gabriel frowned, realising that these last few weeks seemed far longer to him than the previous three centuries. Things seemed to slow down when they were no longer routine. This walk, for instance, seemed to be taking hours. To distract himself from the anxiety of the situation, he tried to appreciate God’s Creation. He drank in the warmth of the midday sun, the chirruping of little birds in the trees, the hum of insects, the smell of cut grass. But he was still hyper-focused on every small move the demon next to him was making. Their breaths seemed to be coming more laboured, while Gabriel, who often exercised his corporeal form, was not finding the exertion strenuous.

He decided, diplomatically, not to point out his physical superiority, although it was tempting to do so.

“When was the last time you visited Earth?” Gabriel asked. He had the vague impression that Beelzebub much preferred their office to practical field work. During his fairly regular visits to Earth, he had rarely encountered the fly-infested Prince of Hell.

The demon eyed him again suspiciously. “Why do you care?”

Gabriel could not help but notice that their eyes were distinctly un-demonic. Blue-grey, like a pale, cloudy sky. “I was just passing the time,” he said, trying to sound neutral. “Making conversation, you know.”

“You’re azzking a lot of questionzz.” Beelzebub focused on the road ahead.

“That’s _how_ people make conversation,” the archangel said. “I ask you questions, you ask me questions, and the answers lead to more questions, maybe even a story or two. Don’t you demons know how to have polite conversations?”

“Not with angels.” The Lord of the Flies adjusted the red sash which hung across their navy suit. “We’re hereditary enemies, in case that fact has slipped your mind.”

Gabriel was forced to remind himself of _that_ fact every few minutes. The village of Tadfield had a distracting aura, a powerful feeling of love and belonging which assaulted his angelic senses. It was difficult to remember that he should be feeling deep enmity towards the creature next to him.

“Would you prefer it if we walked in complete silence?” he asked, disappointed.

After a pause of consideration, Beelzebub shook their shaggy head. “No. But not zzo many personal questionzz.”

The archangel nodded, and they managed to make awkward, superficial, civil comments for the rest of the journey. By the time they reached their destination, their shoes were muddied but Gabriel felt strange and sort of fluffy inside. The feeling was not unpleasant.

A cottage with white walls and a quaint design came into view up ahead. While the charm of the building was completely lost on the two supernatural beings approaching it, they stopped nonetheless and stared down the road. They knew instinctively that they had closed in on their quarry. The traitors were there.

“That’s his car.” Beelzebub pointed at the nose of a black vehicle poking out from behind a hedge.

“Then they’re probably both inside that human dwelling.”

“Brilliant thinking, geniuzzz,” the demon rolled their eyes.

Gabriel ignored their sarcasm, and gestured towards a gap in the tall hedge on the opposite side of the road from the cottage. There was an unoccupied green car parked there, and a forest path twisting away behind it. When Beelzebub failed to understand what he meant, he grabbed their sleeve and tugged them towards the car.

“Unhand me!” they snapped, and yanked their sleeve away. “Of all the shit-for-brainzzz, irritating, zzztupid…”

Gabriel tried the passenger door of the green car while the Prince of Hell buzzed angrily. “Drat,” he said. “It’s locked.”

Beelzebub snapped their fingers. “Not anymore.”

He gaped at them in dismay. “I thought we said _no miracles._ ”

“Settle your feathers, Gabe, it was only a tiny miracle.”

“But they’re _right there._ ” He pointed at the cottage down the road. “They probably sensed that.”

“You got what you wanted, zzo zztop complaining.” They swung into the driver’s seat, and Gabriel sighed and got in next to them.

It was awfully perfumed and smelly inside the car, but he couldn’t see anything which might have been causing the stink. It was also quite cramped. His warm coat began to feel very uncomfortable. If either of them had their wings out, they would have been completely unable to move. Beelzebub, who had actually never set foot in a human vehicle before, started immediately tapping at all the buttons available, twisting the wheel, pressing their feet against the pedals.

“Why have so many buttons if most of them don’t _work_?” they grumbled.

“It isn’t on,” Gabriel said. “You need a key to turn it on.”

Driving had not been part of the plan anyway - this was just a clever way to provide cover while they waited. The door of the cottage was visible, and several windows, but lacy curtains were blocking a good view of the rooms inside. Gabriel decided to bring binoculars next time…or, well, send binoculars with whoever went in his stead. Beelzebub _had_ to know about binoculars, or at least telescopes - those things had been around for a long time, now. Clever humans.

He raised a hand to his forehead and it came away slightly oily. His corporeal form was overheating. He struggled, trying to successfully take off his coat. Losing interest in trying out all the inoperable functions of the car, Beelzebub settled back into the driver’s seat and breathed out a long, bored breath. Gabriel was conscious of their gaze as he laboriously managed to extract himself from the outer layer of clothing. _Phew._ That exertion had made his skin oilier.

“Zzzo what now?” the Lord of the Flies muttered.

“We wait for them to come out.” The archangel smiled then, remembering something he had briefly seen on a TV. “I believe the humans call this a stake-outing,” he said. It was nice to be knowledgeable about human customs sometimes.

“Why call it that?” Beelzebub was unimpressed.

“I don’t know. Perhaps it has something to do with eating,” he mused. “Lots of human things are to do with eating.”

“Or sex.”

“Pardon?” Alarmed, he looked at the demon. It really was _too warm_ in this car, but Beelzebub looked entirely comfortable with the heat. Probably accustomed to hellfire, and all that. Their fly hat had slipped askew, flattening some shaggy black hair to the side of their face.

“Eating and sex,” the demon repeated blandly. “Humans are obsezzzed with both.”

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know why a stake-outing would have anything to do with _that_ ,” he said primly. “It’s just watching people.”

“It was a general comment,” Beelzebub sighed with that vexing, condescending tone of voice. “Calm down, fuzzzy-feathers. I wazzn’t suggesting _we_ do anything lewd.”

Even with the coat off, Gabriel’s skin was now prickling like tiny pins were being pressed into his legs and the back of his neck. He tugged at his collar, removed his scarf. When he was still too warm, he opened the car door by a few inches to let fresh air into the vehicle. Relieved by the feeling of coolness on his skin, he chanced another look at the demon. They were watching the house with a steady, unblinking gaze - utterly composed, relaxed. The topic of conversation did not appear to have bothered them at all.

Well, demons probably talked about vulgar human habits all the time. It was their job to understand such things.

“How do you think they did it?” Beelzebub asked abruptly.

Gabriel’s brain stalled as he considered every possible meaning of the ambiguous phrase “they did it”, and eventually settled on the idea that the demon meant “they” as in _the traitors, Aziraphale and Crowley_ , and “did it” as in _survived their executions_. A bead of perspiration trickled down his back.

“I think they went native,” the Prince of Hell was continuing to speculate. “Somehow, they stopped being like you or me, and became more like the humans. They were here more than anyone else on record.”

“Possibly,” Gabriel managed to say. His voice was a tad higher pitched than normal, so he cleared his throat. “But I don’t see how Aziraphale could break so many rules and even become immune to hellfire without actually Falling. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, it might,” Beelzebub frowned. “If he isn’t properly an angel, he couldn’t Fall any more than a human could.”

That made Gabriel go silent with the pressure of confusing thoughts. It was true - there were plenty of bad humans out there, some worse than others, and none of them plummeted to their doom because of their sins. Until they died, of course. That was the difference between mortals and immortals - the equalising justice of death. Without death, how could an immortal angel _not_ Fall? Where was the _justice_ in that?

Wonderful - now he had a pounding headache as well as being too warm.

Still, he admitted internally, having doubts down here on Earth was probably better than having doubts in Heaven. Part of him desperately wanted to ask Beelzebub about ineffability, but the demon would probably just call him stupid again. It was very frustrating. Very unfitting, for an archangel to be called mean names.

“Wait, look.” Beelzebub pointed over the steering wheel. “They’re coming out.”

~#~

Aziraphale was holding a cardboard box full of homemade biscuits, and was rather delighted with how lunch had gone. Wishing a very-much-in-love Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer a good day, and hearing the door of their cottage shut, he smiled happily at Crowley. In the midday sun, his demon’s red hair was like so many small rubies.

“That wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, was it, dear?”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise. He produced the key to the Bentley.

“Well, I think young Newt makes rather agreeable biscuits,” Aziraphale said, making his way to the passenger side. “These will go lovely with some cocoa later this evening, if you’d care to join me.”

He was reaching for the door handle, happily thinking of all the peaceful reading he would be able to do with Crowley dozing next to him. But, looking up, he noticed that his friend was frozen in place on the other side of the Bentley. His pale face had gone three shades paler, and his nostrils were flaring in an alarming way.

“My dear…” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. His fingers, resting on the handle, shook. All of the fears of a few weeks ago returned in a rush.

“Angel, get into the car,” Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale did, and watched in silent terror as Crowley got in as well, his angular jaw clenching and unclenching. Something was very wrong. Not quite End-of-Times wrong, but still very _wrong_.

“What is it?” he asked, becoming more and more fearful as the seconds passed. “For goodness’s sake, Crowley, tell me what it is.”

“I can smell something,” Crowley hissed. “Something familiar.”

“Good or evil?”

“Sulfur,” he replied. “So my first instinct was Hell…but there’s something else. Another smell.”

Not just Hell. Maybe Heaven too. That was far worse. Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s clammy hand and weaved their fingers together. They looked intensely at each other, in the desperate way which only people who have recently, narrowly evaded death can look.

“What if they figured out what we did?” Aziraphale fretted. “What if they’ve come back for us?”

“They can’t have figured it out.” Crowley shook his head, serpent-like eyes flicking beneath his dark sunglasses. “They can’t have. They couldn’t possibly prove it, even if they guessed. We were careful.”

“Oh, why don’t they just leave us alone!” cried Aziraphale, clutching the box of biscuits in his lap. He took one out and bit into it messily out of sheer anxiety.

As crumbs scattered onto Aziraphale’s clothing and Crowley swallowed back a remark about keeping his upholstery tidy, the ex-demon’s seeking gaze settled on the slivers of green car which he could just about make out behind the tall hedge up the road.

“Act casual, don’t look too quickly,” he warned his companion. “But I think they’re in that green Corsa.”

~#~

Sometimes, things have a habit of happening at exactly the wrong moment.

Perhaps this is untrue - perhaps we mortals only take particular notice of small unfortunate things, which otherwise can go unremarked upon, when they occur at inopportune times. Spilling coffee on a coworker when heading into a tense business meeting, for instance. Slipping on a banana peel while running away. One gets the picture.

In any case, the wrong moment for a particular Archangel and Prince of Hell happened while they were trying (unsuccessfully) to shrink back into their car seats and remain unseen by their quarry. The unfortunate thing which occurred was that the owner of that vehicle chose this particular moment to return from a pleasant woodland stroll, only to discover two odd-looking individuals already sitting inside his car.

Beelzebub jumped at the sharp rapping of wrinkled human knuckles against the window. An elderly gentleman, with a dog leash clutched in a shaky, arthritic hand, glared inside.

“What do you hooligans think you’re up to, breaking into-”

With a snap of Beelzebub’s fingers, the man disappeared.

Gabriel blinked in surprise, then stared, appalled, at the Lord of the Flies. “I thought we agreed no miracles!” he gasped, and, not waiting for an answer, clapped his hands to perform another miracle to un-miracle the demon’s miracle.

The elderly man appeared again, drenched in cold water and wearing a singularly shocked expression. At breakfast that morning, he had certainly not anticipated taking a surprise dip into the North Sea. His dog, a poodle confused out of its mind by the sight of its owner vanishing into thin air, began barking and turning in very distressed circles.

“Idiot! Why bring him back?” Beelzebub snapped their fingers and the man once again disappeared.

“You can’t just terrorise random humans!” Gabriel shouted, and waved his hand.

“He’zzz going to give uzzz away!” _Snap!_

“ _You_ _’re_ going to give us away!” _Clap!_

As one can imagine, this continued for some time. Gabriel and Beelzebub were really rather powerful beings, and (although each would argue that they were the stronger of the two) they were of approximately equal miracle-working capacity. They both had the strength to keep this up for hours if necessary.

They were both aware of this. Thus, just like many yelling contests in which one side is repeatedly screaming “No!” while the other screams “Yes!”, the miracle-performing match eventually disintegrated into physical scrabbling. This is why angels and demons often bring conventional weapons to fight each other, despite their supernatural abilities. When one miracle can effectively cancel another, it is sometimes a more efficient strategy to start shoving one’s opponent instead, or to throw lightning, or to send in a swarm of ravenous, deadly flies. One is only limited by imagination and resources.

Outside the car, the shivering old man, soaked in icy seawater, collapsed from shock. His perplexed dog howled. The scrabbling, poking, flailing struggle within the car ended when Beelzebub’s elbow was accidentally pinned against the steering wheel, and the horn wailed in protest.

~#~

Down and across the road in the Bentley, Aziraphale and Crowley were very confused. Witnessing a human disappear and reappear several times, sensing waves of paranormal energy produced by miracle-working, and hearing a car horn blare, they were unsure how to react.

“What…good gracious, what is going on over there?” Aziraphale said. He had finished one biscuit and made a start on another, chewing nervously. “That poor man!”

“They haven’t sent their best agents,” Crowley commented, managing to see some humour in the situation. “The ones who nabbed us did a much sneakier job.” He thought about options for a moment, then started the engine.

“Is it okay to leave, do you think?” Aziraphale implored him with large, wide blue eyes.

“Yeah, they’re here for us, not anyone else,” Crowley assured him. “And,” he added, “they won’t dare cross Adam, right?”

“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale. His head bobbed in assent. “Yes, Tadfield should be safe.”

Crowley smirked as he hit the accelerator and sped off with a screech of tyres. “I’m willing to bet whatever morons they’ve sent can’t actually drive,” he said. “Don’t worry, angel, they’ll not follow us.”

He reached for Aziraphale’s warm hand and squeezed it. And, although the angel believed affectionately that Crowley had done this in order to offer reassurance, Crowley was mostly doing it just to reassure himself. For the first time ever, they were both _safe_ and _together,_ free to act in any way they pleased. He was determined for things to remain that way, forever if possible, Heaven and Hell both be, well, damned.

~#~

Cramped in a tangle of elbows, knees, feet and hands, Gabriel and Beelzebub froze when the horn blared. Bruised, scratched and dishevelled from their scuffle, they retreated to their own seats. Beelzebub heard the screech of Crowley’s car as it tore away down country roads. Well, shit.

“I think they noticed us,” Gabriel muttered.

“Really?” Beelzebub drawled, rolling their eyes. “What gave you that idea?”

Both angel and demon were quiet then. Tension rippled in the air between them. Beelzebub was thankful that the container of hellfire at their waist had not been opened accidentally in the struggle, but was still considering the idea of using it. _Stupid angel._ They readjusted their hat, straightened their clothing and smoothed back some matted hair.

Gabriel spoke first, frustration emanating from every word like venom.

“This is your fault,” he accused them. “I should have known better than to work with your kind. Now that the traitors know they’re being followed, spying on them will be nearly impossible. ”

“Be quiet,” Beelzebub said, and their voice was devoid of emotion. Getting angry felt like a waste of energy right now. Unfortunately, Gabriel did not appear to share that opinion.

“What’s worse,” the archangel added, seething, “is that someone upstairs will have taken note of those localised miracles, which means they’ll probably investigate what was going on, and want a full report. I’m going to have difficulty explaining why I was _here_ of all places. Ugh,” he groaned. “Michael is going to be infuriating about this.”

Beelzebub drummed the steering wheel with their nails. Outside the car, the human’s fluffy dog was quietly whimpering, licking its owner’s cold face. “Thou hast brought this upon yourzzelf,” they told Gabriel. “You _azzzked_ me to work with you, remember? Subterfuge was never my department.”

Gabriel sulked, folding his arms haughtily. “This has been a waste of time.”

“I could not agree more.”

Neither of them made a move to exit the vehicle. Getting out _first_ would be an act of cowardice, comparable to being the first to flee. But, aside from that, Beelzebub was just in no particular hurry to leave this confined, perfume-smelling space. From the perspective of the Prince of Hell, leaving the car meant going back to Hell and all the frantic chaos which that entailed. As for Gabriel, they could only guess that Heaven’s pristine, boring atmosphere never inspired any desperate urgency to return. So they remained sitting there for a while longer.

“Head Office is right,” Gabriel sighed after a few moments. “I should just let this go, forget about Aziraphale.”

Beelzebub looked at him incredulously. _Head Office?_ That…well, that changed things. This misstep apparently went far further than they could have guessed. Going behind the backs of his equals in the bureaucratic hierarchy would have been one thing, but acting against orders from the ultimate authority was a _completely_ different level of disobedience. Startled by the revelation, Beelzebub began seeing the archangel in a different light. Huh. Gone rogue, indeed.

“This was a mistake,” Gabriel continued, now sounding truly exhausted. He was looking straight ahead, talking to himself more than anything else.

“It was _your zz_ tupid plan, birdbrain,” Beelzebub said quietly. They could not resist admiring the length of Gabriel’s eyelashes and the angle of his clean-shaven jaw. There was a pink scratch mark across his cheek. Considering their next words carefully, they leaned somewhat sideways in the driver’s seat, gazing intently at their angelic companion. Their fingernails dug into the material of the seat. “If it’s any consolation,” they said, “from what I can zzee, you did what you thought was right. Not what you were told. Some might argue that inaction is far often more destructive than rebellion.”

It was not their department, but sometimes temptation was an inescapable part of demonic nature.

Gabriel visibly shuddered, probably at the mere mention of rebellion. “That’s blasphemy of the worst kind,” he whispered. “No wonder you Fell.”

Turning his head, he seemed to finally notice how close the Prince of Hell had got. Flustered, fidgeting, unsettled, he recoiled, shoulder pressing against the car door. Those vivid purple eyes went wide with alarm.

Beelzebub drank from the depths of his apprehensive gaze. “Thou art frightened,” they said, “because you think I might be right.”

Breathing irregularly, Gabriel attempted a pompous laugh which fell flat. “I’m not frightened of anything,” he claimed, sweating profusely. “You’re wrong and you sound ridiculous saying ‘thou’ all the time.”

In their domain of Hell, while reclining upon their throne, the Lord of the Flies had a way of switching from completely disinterested to casually bloodthirsty in the blink of an eye. Many lesser demons who had been subjected to their death glare attested to its power through stammering, fits of shaking, cold sweats and other suitably fearful activities. It was a gift, a particular style of command. Unblinking, Beelzebub tried to employ some of that power now, peering into Archangel Gabriel’s supposedly spotless soul.

And, in the silence while they stared at each other, the tension between them…shifted.

It was a barely perceptible change to begin with, and it began with a memory. Beelzebub had not allowed thoughts of Before the Fall to enter their mind for thousands of years, and yet in this moment they were suffused with a strong memory of light and fierce sunshine and…and Gabriel. Gabriel was there, back in the beginning - not the Earth’s Beginning, long before that - in the origin of all memories, when all of them had been mere children, silly creatures of air and innocence. He was there, and _oh, Satan_ , it was ancient pain for Beelzebub to remember how deeply they had once felt about him. The memory of pure, loving feelings was so alien now that it may as well have belonged to a completely different being, but here, now, Beelzebub remembered. And burned with want.

There was a cavernous emptiness within their soul, where once there had been light. Demons were built from emptiness. It bred longing and desire and covetousness. It bred jealousy and cruelty and passion. In Beelzebub, it had bred an iron will which commanded legions, and a bitterness which had poisoned their soul until they no longer really wanted anything but destruction.

Yet there was Gabriel, his broad chest heaving, staring at them with those proud eyes. Their auras were powerful, merging, sizzling with energy. And Beelzebub stared back, shocked to find that after thousands of years of perfect control over their desires, they were drowning in a fresh ocean of covetousness. One small glimpse of weakness in the archangel, one hint of possible change, and all forgotten cravings came flooding back.

It would be easy to lean in further, they thought, to crowd Gabriel against the window of the car, to press up against him, to feel the angel resist hopelessly but eventually give in, to taste sweet victory upon his smooth skin, to reach into his soul and claim back the small part which had once _almost_ belonged to them. Based on the half-lidded eyes drifting over their face, the slightly open lips, the tense muscles in his neck, Gabriel was not immune to this tension either. There was panic in his expression, a squirming in his body.

And then Beelzebub pictured the other possible reaction. Gabriel was perhaps exactly as frigid as he pretended to be. Heaven’s golden boy would never submit to a demon’s advances. They would lean in, display their vulnerable need, and then be…rejected. Again. Pushed away in disgust. Thwarted. Humiliated. It made them shudder.

No. They would never give the Enemy such an advantage.

Beelzebub sat back down and released the archangel from their death stare. They held the steering wheel loosely, focusing on anything but the angel next to them and the pulsing warmth in their traitorous body.

Miles away on the other side of the car, Gabriel visibly relaxed. Silence resumed and dragged out inexorably. Tension was still there, but the necessary spark of ignition was gone.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh, contact you when I’ve decided whether or not to continue this venture,” he said.

Beelzebub buzzed without emotion. “Be good,” they muttered ironically as the archangel opened the car door.

As the last crackles of Gabriel’s lightning faded, the Lord of the Flies dropped their forehead against the steering wheel and let the horn wail, on and on and on.


	4. Fleshy sins.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of feelings in this chapter.

_“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” – Proverbs 4:23_

Although it was plain cowardice, and unworthy behaviour for any high-ranking angel, Gabriel hid in his office.

Safely closed in behind beautifully carved doors, he returned to his full angelic form. He unfurled his wings, threw aside his coat, checked that no-one was around to see him, then sat heavily upon the smooth floor of his office. The archangel promptly wrapped his feathers around himself. Sheltered away from prying eyes, he could hide his face, hide his heavy breaths, hide the feelings of shame boiling inside him.

When Gabriel closed his eyes, he felt as if he was still there, sitting in that car, paralysed. Lord Beelzebub’s gaze had been wanton, craving, bottomlessly hungry, as if they had wanted to devour him whole. And he - a representative of Heaven - had _frozen_. It was humiliating. Something had broken inside him in that moment, making him powerless to move. But the embarrassment of freezing up was not even the worst part. No - the worst part was that, when the Lord of the Flies had released him from their paralysing stare, he had been… _disappointed_. Their exchange had promised danger, but the danger was never delivered. Gabriel felt cheated. At least, if Beelzebub had acted, he would have had the opportunity to _re_ act. Now all he was left with was to speculate about what that staring session had meant.

Picking at his sleeve, he looked at the dirt he had tracked across the floor on his shoes. Its presence disturbed him. Mud, in Heaven, in stark contrast to clean marble tiles. Already, he was staining the place with his carelessness. With his unworthiness. Gabriel let out a shaky breath, trying to figure out why Heaven had quickly become so threatening, filled with judgemental eyes, including his own. His own mind was an unsafe place, full of previously unacknowledged, recently awakened monsters and self-deceit.

He had _ideas_ about what Beelzebub’s covetous stare had meant.

Gabriel was not naïve. He had been there in the Beginning. Everyone in Heaven had craned their necks at some stage into the Garden to catch a glimpse of Adam and Eve together, exploring each other’s flesh in innocent wonderment. Since then, their descendants had taken a variety of different attitudes and approaches towards their carnality, but the overall point was, Gabriel was well aware of it, and understood _what_ sex was. It was necessary in the design of things, he had always reasoned. New humans and other animals had to come from somewhere. If the Almighty had decided to make the process messy and inefficient, the choice was surely an intentional one. Perhaps a test of sorts.

What he did not properly understand, however, was _lust._ That, like the other sins of the flesh, was demonic territory. In other words, it was not worth understanding. It held no fascination whatsoever. Gabriel had certainly _not_ spent long periods of time considering the subject in any detail. Ahem.

Angels (yes, and demons, being made of the same original stock) were, in their original forms, sexless, chaste creatures. Unbound by physics, but possessing physical bodies. Their physical forms were functional, and those functions had not included reproduction. So, sexless. But since the Beginning, their corporeal forms had resembled humans more closely, extending to particular - well - _features._ The essential plumbing, the tubes and structures and such, were necessary for the basic maintenance which human bodies also needed: lungs and a heart to pump blood, a brain to contain thoughts, skin pores to regulate temperature. Meanwhile, other additions - hair, choice of genitals, clothing - were matters of preference. Gabriel had preferences. He kept his preference to himself.

Bodies brought problems. Possible sins of the flesh. Demons, as was their rebellious nature, were known to indulge in the same sins as humans. Including flesh-related ones.

Like lust.

Gabriel knew it was a doomed line of thought, but he could not stop wondering if Beelzebub used their body for such purposes, and if so, with whom? Other demons? Not humans, surely - they were never on Earth for long enough, as far as he knew. And was it lust which had fuelled the infernal fire in their eyes that afternoon? Lust…for him? Well, at least _that_ part he understood; his human form was very attractive, so he had been told. But to have a demon lust after him? Particularly _that_ demon? The thought made him warm all over, far too warm. Shame burned his cheeks. _God forgive me._

Even sitting here on the floor, contemplating what specifically might have happened if Beelzebub had decided to make a move, felt like damnation. Gabriel struggled endlessly in his mind. He was an archangel. It was _impossible_ for him to feel like this. It was unacceptable.

In the corner of the office, the records of Aziraphale were still piled up. Gabriel thought of the way the traitor looked at his demonic compatriot, and for the briefest moment, felt something close to sympathy. But _no._ There could be no sympathy for traitors in his mind. He was the Archangel Gabriel. He was the pinnacle of angelic perfection. He had to set an _example._ Rising to his feet and miracling away the mud, he brushed off his inconvenient doubts. There was work to be done, and he needed to explain himself to Michael before the observant archangel got any ideas about his behaviour.

He would never succumb to weakness again, he promised, settling into some paperwork.

It was just a matter of remembering what he enjoyed about his job, and focusing on that, rather than the frustration of Armageddon being called off. Ordering fledgling angels to do meaningless team-building exercises, lining up gold pens and quills in neat arrangements, making tidy stacks of paperwork, reading well-written reports - these were all good things, all pleasurable. He could continue doing such things for another six thousand years, right?

All would be fine if he just ceased all contact with Lord Beelzebub. That would be _easy._ He did not even like them.

If he put away Aziraphale’s files, moved past the whole ordeal, just got on with the prescribed duties of his existence, eventually he would return to normal and stop having doubts. It was not giving up, it was resisting an attempt at temptation by a Prince of Hell, no less. Really, Gabriel mused, he deserved praise for being strong-willed enough to withstand such subtle seduction. Beelzebub claimed temptation was not their department, but who could trust anything they said? They were clearly too good (er, bad?) at tempting for that to be entirely true. Such cunning wiles - getting him in a confined space, bruising his ego by calling him names, encouraging disobedience, doing that irresistible buzzing thing which caused him to shiver all over, gazing with those _disarming_ blue-grey eyes, moving their small, slender fingers in ways which made him think about feeling them directly on his skin, stroking, petting, roughly digging in nails…

Dry-mouthed, Gabriel gasped, and slammed the brakes on that train of thought. His knuckles were white as he clutched the edge of his desk. Blood was throbbing in unfortunate places.

Oh, hell’s bells.

Apparently, this was _not_ going to be easy.

~#~

The inter-office phone had not rung in days.

Lord Beelzebub absolutely did not care. Not at all. They may have been obsessively checking the phone to make sure that it had not been broken, but being thorough and careful was just part of effective management. Few mechanical or electrical devices lasted long in Hell. Lights flickered, pipes leaked, walls crumbled, gaps opened up in the floor, open wires sizzled. Everything broke eventually. It was only smart to check.

Beelzebub was _far_ too busy to care about stupid, fussy-feathers Gabriel anyway. What did their half-hearted agreement about the traitors matter when there was so much else to do? Hell was abuzz (pun intended) with the news of the upcoming tournament. It was nowhere near as exciting or as heavily foretold as an Apocalypse, but at least it was _something_ different. Preparations were being made with some degree of enthusiasm. The other Princes of Hell on the Dark Council, who usually did as little as possible, had amazed Beelzebub by actually getting on board about the tournament. It was rare for any of those slothful buggers to properly pull their weight in management, so it had been a pleasant surprise to have any assistance at all. Leviathan was arranging the capture of some particularly gruesome Hell-Beasts to use in games, Berith had some interesting concept ideas for prizes, Astaroth woke up from a two-week slumber to help decorate, while Asmodeus had enthusiastically suggested having a wide-scale orgy to celebrate. That last idea had been rejected by popular vote, thankfully.

Not for the first time, Beelzebub hated being the sensible one. Nothing would be organised properly without them, but their efforts went unappreciated, taken for granted. It was very frustrating.

“It’s been more than six centuries since we did one of these tournament things,” Dagon commented, passing the Lord of the Flies pages from a binder of documents. “There were so many discorporations last time, we had to open a new department just to deal with the backlog.” She was hovering behind Beelzebub’s chair, and Beelzebub could sense that their underling was slowly building up to saying something. It would probably be about all those unplanned miracles on Earth.

They gently stroked the smooth wings of one of the mouse-sized flies crawling over their sleeve. “Have the full department on zzztandby,” they told Dagon. “We’re going to have to assign lots of new bodiezzz after thizzz.”

“On it,” Dagon replied, scratching a note in a damp notebook next to a scrawled doodle of an angel, or maybe a bird, being eaten by what might have been an alligator, or perhaps a dragon.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” Beelzebub said, mostly uninterested.

Dagon got flustered and hid the notebook in their jacket pocket. “It’s just a new hobby,” she shrugged. “I’m no good at it.”

Beelzebub put their feet up on their desk, balancing documents on their pin-striped legs. It was exceedingly rare for demons to attempt to produce artwork, and when they did, it was never up to much. Human infants often did better. “I’ve zzzeen worse,” they said, because it was true.

Beaming from this rare praise, Dagon’s face split into a sharp, toothy grin. “Thank you, sir,” she said happily. “Would you like it if I drew a picture of you?”

“No,” Beelzebub replied bluntly.

“Understood.” Dagon took what little she could get. “I’ll try to draw better, then, and maybe you’ll change your mind someday.”

“We’ll zzee.”

They continued reading the documents in front of them, Dagon sorting through the binder and producing important pages every few minutes. After a while, Beelzebub again became aware of their scaly underling’s direct gaze, and prepared themselves for the questions. Sure enough, questions arrived.

“Sir,” Dagon started off uncertainly. “I couldn’t help but notice that, while you were on Earth meeting with the archangel, there was a large spike, so to speak, in the miracle side of things. If you don’t mind me asking, what did you use your unholy power for?” She avoided their gaze. “Just for the records.”

Beelzebub considered her expression: mostly just curiosity, not a hint of actual suspicion. Dagon was blindly loyal to them. It was an unnatural quality to find in Hell, where everyone was out to get everyone else and paranoia abounded. But, in Dagon’s case, her loyalty was certainly useful.

“We had an altercation,” they told her. “Blowzz were exchanged. Thou knowest how it izz. A demon and an angel, trying to have a civil meeting? Impossible.”

Dagon nodded with eagerness, eyes sparkling at the suggestion of violence. “Did you defeat him, sir?”

“Yezzz,” Beelzebub lied, unwilling to disappoint. _And then I passed up the chance to tempt him._

“What did the goody-two-shoes want, anyway?”

 _I actually wish I knew._ Checking the coast was clear, Beelzebub glanced at the doorway and at their flies, which were excellent proximity alerts when other demons were lurking around their office. “The meeting was about the traitorzzz,” they buzzed softly.

“Oh!” Dagon frowned. “Are you and Hastur going to-”

“Hazztur is not to know, Dagon. He’zz been a loose cannon since we lozzt Ligur, can’t be trusted to keep zzecretzz. Not like you.” The Lord of the Flies emphasised that last part, hoping that Dagon would be distracted by flattery. It worked. The Under-Duke was practically blushing, she was so pleased by the attention.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t get ideas, your unholiness,” Dagon preened. “Your trust in me is not misplaced. But why is Heaven getting involved in this?”

“The matter concernzz uzz _and_ the Enemy,” Beelzebub said, in such a disinterested tone that they could have been clarifying the distinction between various rocks.

“You know best, of course,” Dagon shuddered. “But those pompous fools are not to be trusted.”

“Well, obviouzzly.” Lord Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “Juzzt keep doing what you do bezzt, Dagon. Leave thizz matter to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

The rest of their organising was completed in companionable silence, which was preferable to being questioned. Beelzebub obsessively wondered if Gabriel was being interrogated by the other archangels. From the way he had been speaking, it sounded as if Michael was likely to tear him to shreds for misuse of miracles. Heaven did like their rules. The only way of finding out would be to call him, but Beelzebub was loath to admit to the angel that they had called just out of personal curiosity. Despite that awkward moment in the car, they were determined not to display any more obvious signs of attraction. The archangel had seen too much already, had perhaps even gloated to his colleagues about spotting a weakness in Hell’s leadership.

When Dagon left, Beelzebub closed the office door and cooed over the many precious insects filling the air and sitting on the furniture. The queen of the swarm, the mother of all the largest flies, Adze, whose likeness Beelzebub wore as a hat while on Earth, received the most attention in the form of scratches and adoring words. She buzzed up and landed on her master’s head, settling amidst matted black hair. Beelzebub sighed with contentment at the feeling of lots of lovely little skittering feet clinging to their clothing and skin. It was calming, took their mind off troubles.

Amidst the shelter of the swarm, Beelzebub was peaceful in a way they would never admit out loud. This was a side to the Prince of Hell which no demon had ever been privileged enough to witness, not even loyal Dagon. Only one had ever come close. Several millennia ago during a dull period of human history, the infamously lustful Asmodeus had taken a notion of seducing Lord Beelzebub, provoked by their disinterest in “fleshy sins”. In the last of several seduction attempts, he had apparently thought it would be funny to turn himself fly-sized and infiltrate the swarm, only to discover that the queen fly had excellent perception and rather powerful jaws. Beelzebub had been furious at the breach of privacy. Asmodeus had given up after that.

They had simply not been interested in experiencing lust with anyone, not for thousands of years. Beelzebub had an insatiable appetite for hatred, good management and thorough paperwork, but not for pleasures of the flesh.

So why now, after so long, had these desires awakened in them? It made no sense. Except that, every time they thought of Gabriel, it made perfect, instinctual sense of the most basic kind; he, specifically, was what they wanted. He was their equal and opposite, their perfect counterpart. All that pure, angelic strength radiating from him, reminding them of some long-forgotten ecstasy, was irresistible. The physical desire was only a projection of an deep, ancient pining which, since those moments in the car, Beelzebub could no longer ignore. Not for another millennium. Not for another century, or decade, or year. Not for another moment.

In fact, they reasoned, fear of rejection was _not_ a decent reason to ignore it. Success could only mean a victory for their side. Seducing an archangel and causing him to Fall would ensure Beelzebub was in Lucifer’s favour for the foreseeable future. Certainly, having Gabriel down in Hell with them would make the next few centuries…interesting.

Compelled by attractive fantasies, Beelzebub reached for the gold-lined black phone and punched in the number. On their head, Adze shifted and buzzed, sensing her master’s excitement.

It rang for so long that they almost gave up, but then the ringing stopped.

There was a shuffling, crackling noise. “Hello?”

“Gabriel.”

“State the purpose of your call, demon.” His voice was strained.

“How very formal of you,” Beelzebub commented, feet once again up on their desk. They clutched the phone, imagining how he would look, sitting in the brightness of his Heavenly office. Would his wings be out, white and fluffy and soft to touch? Would he be wearing one of those lilac scarves around his neck, one which they could grab and use to pull him closer, close enough to…?

“Of course I’m being formal,” the archangel said stiffly. “What other way would you expect me to speak to you?”

“No other way,” Beelzebub said, with more than a hint of dry humour. “Thizzz is a businezzz-only call, so we should behave in a perfectly appropriate, businezzz-like manner. No nonzzense. No chitchat.”

“Well…good.” Gabriel sounded uncertain, as if unsure whether or not he was being laughed at. “So what do you want?”

“An update,” they said. “It’zz been days. What is thy statuzz?”

Gabriel hesitated, then sighed. “Michael knows I met with you,” he said tiredly. “So I was forced to lie and say that we were just finalising the end of the ceasefire, when things got heated, you attacked, and I was forced to defend an innocent human. That part had to be in there, you know. Michael knew the details of the miracles, had a receipt and everything. She knew there was a human involved.”

“Did she believe you?” Beelzebub was well aware of how terrible Gabriel was at lying.

“Yes.” Gabriel sounded surprised. “Yes, she did actually. Apparently she doesn’t suspect I would have it in me to, um…to disobey an order.” He sounded positively distraught, and Beelzebub was unsure how to proceed. Their first instinct was to take advantage of this emotional distress and ruthlessly belittle him some more. But that would probably be counter-productive. The purpose now was to encourage interactions between them, not to mock him.

“If we’re continuing with this operation,” they said, almost gently, “it should not be _uzz_ doing the actual zzpying.”

“Ssshpppt!”

“What?”

“Apologies.” The phone rustled. “A cloud just went past outside my window. I thought it was someone listening, I over-reacted.” Gabriel breathed out sharply down the line.

“Jumpy, aren’t we?” Beelzebub’s pin-striped legs, propped up on the desk, shifted contentedly. The flies buzzed around them and crawled over their festering skin.

“Shut up,” Gabriel groaned. “This is easy for you. Demons are used to this kind of underhand behaviour.”

“Ah, zzzo you admit you’re being underhand!”

“Not at all!” There was a note of panic in his voice. “You don’t understand. This is complicated.”

“That’zz the kind of thing we all said before the Fall,” Beelzebub told him. “It wazz complicated, it wasn’t disobedience, just a different way of zzeeing things. We were just asking questionzz. It was all liezzz. We were rebels, or at least the Almighty certainly zzaw it that way.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone-line. Ah. Perhaps that had been going too far. Gathering some courage, Beelzebub spoke again. “If you _did_ Fall,” they said, trying to sound bored, “and I’m not zzaying you will, but _if_ you did, I’d make sure no-one down here roughed you up too much.” Their skin was suffused with heat. “I’d zzzave you all for myzzelf.”

More silence. Clearly Gabriel was processing those comments.

Finally he spoke, soft and gratingly. “You’re disgusting.”

“Thankzzzz.” They involuntarily dragged out the buzz on that one.

“No,” Gabriel insisted. “You’re…truly disgusting. Revolting, really.”

Beelzebub closed their eyes, picturing his lips pouting in prissy revulsion. “One of many perkzz which come with the territory,” they drawled. He could insult them all he liked. Calling a demon disgusting was like calling a thorn sharp.

“You turn my stomach,” he said. This aggression was coming off a bit strong now. It may have been the poor quality of the line, but Gabriel’s voice sounded deeper, huskier.

Beelzebub was meant to be doing the tempting here, but their head was swimming. “Uh-huh?” they hummed. Their palm was sweaty against the plastic of the phone.

“I’m not exaggerating,” the archangel continued. “If I had ever made use of my stomach, I would certainly be retching right now, at the thought of you. Every time I think I’ve got you out of my head, I think about it again.”

“About what, zzzpecifically?” they asked.

“About…how disgusting you are,” Gabriel stuttered, uncertain again. “Obviously.”

Beelzebub was quiet, lost in thought, dramatically picturing Gabriel plummeting into the abyss next to them, into the grime and damp of Hell, a jewel amidst the filth, and _theirs_. There was no going back from this, they were starting to realise. This was not an obsession which was going away.

“Uh, Beelzebub?” Gabriel said after the pause dragged out. Beelzebub blinked. Normally he just referred to them as _demon_ or _fiend._ It was weird and tingly, to be hearing their chosen name on his tongue.

“Yes, Gabriel?” they replied.

“Could you, uh, if it’s not…I mean, if you’re not too busy or anything, um-”

“Zzzpit it out, fussy-featherzz.”

“Could you just…stay on the line?” he said in a small voice. “Please?”

The Lord of the Flies had no idea what was happening anymore. This was well out of their depth. Strangely, they did not care. “Sure,” Beelzebub said. “Zzince you ask so nicely, I can zztay.”

After that, although they did not meet on Earth, their phone calls became daily occurrences. Chitchat was usually involved. They both pretended it was normal, justifiable behaviour.

They knew, deep down, it wasn’t.


	5. All the best plans are uncomplicated.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After working together for a while, Gabe and Bee have adjusted. Kinda.

_“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labour: if either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no-one to help them up.” – Ecclesiastes 4:9_

**Two months later…**

“And then we should think about re-arranging the storehouses. There have been too many mix-ups lately with robes going missing and people looking for spare halos. What do you think, Gabriel? Ahem. Gabriel? Are you with us?”

Gabriel snapped out of idle reverie and smiled broadly at the rest of the Heavenly administration. Sunlight poured in through the glass walls of the meeting room, refracted in bright rainbow colours through a carved crystal table. Around it were a few of the archangels, all impeccably dressed in neat suits, with wings poised primly behind their backs. Gabriel’s white teeth gleamed almost as brightly as the surface of the table when he smiled.

“I think you’re entirely right, Uriel,” he said. “Storehouses, yes. Add it to the list.”

Archangel Uriel’s golden eyes examined him closely. Her feathers shimmered like molten metal.

“Forgive me, but you did not not seem present, right now, mentally speaking,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

Gabriel graced the group with an even broader smile, to cover the embarrassment he felt at being caught unawares. “Oh, yes, I’m perfectly fine,” he assured them. “I’ve, uh, been experimenting with a human practice. Daydreaming.”

The other archangels looked at him. “Daydreaming?” echoed Michael, disapprovingly.

“Yes,” Gabriel nodded with false enthusiasm. “It’s an imaginative process, allowing one to dream without fully succumbing to sloth and actually falling asleep. You can have wonderful ideas while doing it. You should try it, Uriel,” he added, because she seemed interested.

“What were you dreaming about?” Uriel asked, smiling back.

Gabriel suspected that none of them would endorse daydreams about certain short, dark-haired demons with buzzy, deadpan voices. “Air fresheners,” he said instead. “Terrible smelly things. Makes one glad to be amidst the grace and beauty of Heaven.”

Archangel Michael’s thin nose wrinkled in disapproval, but she was too polite to outright say to a colleague that daydreaming was a pointless waste of time and a poor excuse for a lapse in attention. Gabriel was not perturbed by her opinion; Michael generally disapproved of everything that was not her own idea. Meanwhile, Uriel was nodding thoughtfully. Down at the other end of the table, Archangel Barachiel, with delicate ivory roses in his hair, leaned forward.

“What’s an air freshener?” he asked, fascinated.

After a spirited conversation about the smells and shortcomings of human inventions, the meeting got back on track, and Gabriel managed not to daydream as conspicuously as before. His smile remained, not strained because its energy came from a warm, safe place inside him. In that safe place, he no longer felt any shame about the small deceptions and secrets which he held close to his chest. In fact, although it was terrifying to admit it, those secrets had given him nothing but good feelings lately. The uneventful passage of time had returned Gabriel’s confidence - he had faith that, if he did anything truly wrong, God would smite him down. Since nothing of the kind had occurred, he could continue with his unconventional behaviour.

You see, after two months, Gabriel had become very proficient at lying to himself.

Leaving the other archangels after the meeting, he was glowing with poorly concealed happiness, his aura radiating nerve-tingling exuberance.

“It’s nice to see Gabriel so content,” Barachiel commented.

“Indeed. It’s an inspiration to the younger angels,” Uriel agreed.

Michael’s nose wrinkled again. She kept the thought to herself, but she considered Gabriel’s inexplicable happiness unfitting for an archangel. It was a self-indulgent sort of joviality, accompanied by small acts of selfishness and vanity. Last week, he had even gone on a _shopping trip_ to Earth. And where had these unexplained high spirits even come from? Just two months ago, he had been desperately miserable about the cancelled Apocalypse. Michael prided herself on noticing the finer details of things, and _this_ change of heart completely baffled her. It was concerning. Watching Gabriel practically bounce away from their meeting, swinging his arms, she resolved to find out what had caused her fellow administrator’s dramatic mood shift.

Gabriel, unaware of being so closely examined by his peers, pranced towards his office. He was wearing a new scarf, a particularly soft one in a pleasing shade of blue. Normally he stuck with shades of lilac and grey with his clothing, but this colour had stood out to him and made him smile. It was like a pale, cloudy sky. The colour reminded him of something.

Heaven was particularly sparkling and bright today, he thought. Inside his office, there was a silver glow to everything. The glass flowers given to him by Sandalphon were well-polished, gleaming. Gabriel locked the door, hung up his coat, sat at his desk and checked that no-one was outside the window in the courtyard. That done, he reached under his desk and opened the secret compartment which had been installed several weeks ago. Taking out the paperwork stashed in the secret drawer, he spread it out on his desk and selected a diamond-tipped pen.

Before him were all the documents pertaining to his agreement with Lord Beelzebub, and all the reports sent to him by the ten angelic agents taking it in turns to watch Aziraphale and Crowley. It had been two months since he had gone to Earth for that disastrous stake-outing with Beelzebub. Since then, they had not seen each other face to face, but chatted frequently over the inter-office line, smoothing out all of the creases in their shared scheme. The enterprise now consisted of ten angels and ten demons, all trustworthy, all going by code-names on the reports, disguised differently each time they were assigned and paired up randomly each time. There were many complaint memos sent to Gabriel from the angelic agents, who had _so many_ qualms about working with demons, but according to Beelzebub, the demonic agents had just as many issues about working with angels. Promotions, threats and promises of days off soothed ruffled feathers on both sides, and so far no actual fighting had taken place between operatives.

It had been a learning curve for Gabriel, figuring out how to keep his agents’ activities untraceable to other Heavenly departments. Miracle-working was obviously forbidden for the agents for that reason; a repeat of the stake-outing with Beelzebub was the last thing he needed. But even without surprise miracles, there were still gaps in the official records to consider, absences from other duties, that sort of thing. If anyone pointed out his odd choices in assigning work, Michael would _definitely_ get suspicious. Fortunately for Gabriel, his demonic counterpart had many ingenious ideas of how to keep the discrepancies undetected in the system.

Honestly, they made a great team. He provided the enthusiasm while they provided the correct amount of sneaky know-how. Out in the field, the two of them had been a disaster, but at their desks, managing the operation from a distance, they both excelled. Reading reports to each other over the phone was very satisfying.

And _yes_ , there had been results to their investigation. Patterns of behaviour had emerged in the traitors’ everyday movements and activities. There were locations they frequented together, times of day when they would do certain activities. They were getting somewhere with this, and Gabriel was proud. Soon, he would have something concrete to present to the other archangels. Then all the lies would be wiped clean. His peers would praise him, thank him for being brave enough to act when they did not, and support him when he approached the Metatron and sent the information directly to Head Office.

God would understand his actions and forgive his mild indiscretions.

Yes. It would all work out just fine. Or at least it always did in Gabriel’s fantasies.

The phone rang while he was signing off several new reports. Their daily calls were not always scheduled, but Beelzebub had an uncanny knack for guessing when he would be sitting at his desk. Wily demon. So intuitive. Setting aside the diamond-tipped pen, he reached eagerly and picked up the phone.

“Helloooo,” he said into the receiver. The way he clutched the phone to his ear, combined with the warmth in his voice, could easily have been interpreted as affection by someone who did not know better.

“I truzzt all izz good with you, Gabe,” Lord Beelzebub drawled. They had been calling him _Gabe_ quite a lot recently, and had expressed a desire to give him a proper nickname. It was not as annoying as it should have been. Gabriel had never been given a nickname before, and was waiting to hear what the demon eventually chose.

“I trust all is evil with you,” he replied, grinning widely.

“Tolerably zzzo,” Beelzebub said, deadpan as always. “By the way, I received the gift you sent through our agents.”

Gabriel felt his face flush with redness. During his shopping excursion, he had spotted a small collection of rare Earth insects, each one encased in smooth orange amber, and had thought of Beelzebub. It seemed like their sort of thing. Getting a present for a colleague was a thoughtful, angelic, selflessly motivated thing to do. Ahem.

“Do you like it?” he asked. It was rather silly how anxious he was about their reaction.

“I do,” they replied, and Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief. “Zzzome of these are considered very valuable by humanzz. This Tansy beetle izz particularly beautiful. Wonderful shiny green wing casings, zzzo well preserved. Earth doezz have its benefits. Nothing like this ever grew in Heaven or Hell.”

“Earth is nice, sometimes,” Gabriel agreed. “I like the things humans do with clothing today.”

“I could never have guezzzed,” Beelzebub said sarcastically. He could hear the hint of a smile in their voice, and it made his insides turn to absolute mush. Having never actually _seen_ them smile, not properly, he was unsure if he could bear such a sight.

“Don’t tell me you have no interest in appearances,” he chuckled. “All those medallions you wear, that custom fly hat - you _must_ care just a little bit about how you look.”

Gabriel remembered next to nothing about life before the Fall, but he was certain that Beelzebub, with their delicate features and small frame, must have made a truly adorable angel. Mind you, he would _never_ say that out loud - the Prince of Hell would garrotte him for sure.

“Perhapzz I do,” Beelzebub buzzed. “But I wazz under the impression that angelzz were zzupposed to be immune to vanity.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a healthy respect for aesthetics,” Gabriel defended himself. “Besides, a leader needs to project a certain image! I’m showing discipline by maintaining my appearance.”

“Of course,” said Beelzebub. “The purple eyes, that’zz just because of discipline, izz it?”

“Purple is my favourite colour,” he protested.

“You know, humanzz don’t even _have_ purple eyes,” the demon said.

Gabriel gasped, genuinely surprised. “Really? None of them?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” He shook his head in amazement. “Who knew?”

~#~

After two months of inconvenient desires and frequent phone calls, Beelzebub had a plan. It was not a complicated plan, because all the best plans are uncomplicated, and it went like this:

  1. Be as friendly as demoniacally possible.
  2. Invite Gabriel to Hell for the tournament.
  3. Seduce him.



The details were unimportant beyond those three steps. What mattered was timing, and after considerate amounts of effort on step 1, Beelzebub was sure that today was the day when step 2 became relevant. The preparations for the tournament were complete. The time had come, and the Lord of the Flies was more anxious than they could remember being in a long time. Not even the build-up to the Apocalypse had been such a source of emotional turmoil. They fidgeted and smoothed their sash constantly for hours, setting swarms of the flies on unsuspecting passers-by under their office fortress just to dispel some of the tension.

Listening to Gabriel reading out the last of the reports, Beelzebub was shifting in their large, dark desk chair, stroking one of the amber-encased beetles from the collection the archangel had sent them. Being visibly unsettled was terribly out of character for them, but anxiety made their festering skin itch even more than usual. The flies were a undulating cloud of blurry wings on the opposite side of the room, sensing their master’s mood.

“…and then, apparently, they just returned to the bookshop, and Crowley stayed there all night again,” Gabriel finished, clearing his throat. “So, aside from the incident with the traffic, that was fairly uneventful.”

“Wazz that the lazzt one?” Beelzebub asked.

“Yes, all done.” The archangel sighed happily. “All going very well, I think.”

“You and I should have worked together zzzooner,” they commented.

Gabriel spluttered a bit at that. “Oh, ah, well, yes, I think we…umm. There were obvious reasons we didn’t, though, weren’t there?”

“Lotzzz of reasonzzz,” Beelzebub said, quietly. They liked it far too much when the arrogant angel stammered. It brought to mind blushing cheeks and trembling hands and shy glances.

“But,” the angel said, even quieter, “I wish there had been none.” He coughed unnecessarily, as if trying to cover up what he had just spoken aloud.

The moment really could not have been better.

“Gabe,” Beelzebub said confidently, “you know that we’re having a tournament, down here.”

“You’ve mentioned it a few times, yes.”

“Well, it’zzz going to be tomorrow, and-”

“Oh, congratulations!” he exclaimed unexpectedly. “You’ve been working so hard to set that up. From one leader to another, I hope it’s a great success. You deserve it.”

 _Satan’s sweaty feet -_ sometimes Gabriel was an absolute _angel_. That should not have been such a surprise to discover, but it was. For a moment, Beelzebub struggled to respond, so thrown off by the overwhelming sweetness of the archangel’s words. “Uh, thankzzz,” they said eventually.

“Tell me about it,” Gabriel insisted, sounding genuinely interested. “You haven’t elaborated on it before. What sort of competitions do demons have, anyway? Tempting? Fire-breathing?” His fascinated shudder was so violent that it could be felt through the phone.

Appreciating the opportunity to show off all the organisational feats they had undertaken lately, Beelzebub listed off a few of the more notable events: baiting Hell-Beasts, lots of bouts involving human weapons (swords, guns and such) and an entire day dedicated to darts (for unknown reasons, demons were very fond of darts). There was one very popular game, simply referred to as ‘Playing Ball’, which was Hell’s version of _all_ human sports involving inflated balls. It was an unregulated affair involving five sets of goal posts, a net in the centre of the arena, three balls of various sizes and weights, sticks, bats, rackets, an ice rink, a ring of hellfire, absolutely no rules whatsoever, and a _lot_ of potential injuries.

The main event, however, was a traditional game in which one unfortunate demon was dressed up as an angel, given a head start and then chased around the wild, lower Circles of Hell by competitors until one finally caught up. Given present company, Beelzebub knew talking about that particular game would be in poor taste, and left it out of the general description.

“Oh, and there’zz going to be dancing afterwards,” they added. They had leaned forward in their chair during the conversation, bony elbows pressed against knees, phone still held tightly against their ear.

“Dancing?” Gabriel echoed in disgust. “Moving, sweaty bodies all cramped together? Horrendous!”

“Yezzz, I quite agree,” Beelzebub said. It was the truth - while listening to music of any kind, they had never felt the urge to dance, or even tap their feet. Demons did not dance well anyway, their movements more closely resembling the staggering shamble of drunk penguins.

“You do? Oh, what a relief!” Gabriel said happily. “I always knew you were different from other demons.”

“Not where it counts, smartazzz,” Beelzebub growled, a little confused by the very suggestion. Was that how he was justifying their connection? Compartmentalising, choosing to see them as different, not like ‘other demons’? Was he blind? They were one of Satan’s lieutenants, enemy of Heaven and all things Good, commander of infernal legions, feared for their cold cruelty. How could this idiot of an archangel think otherwise?

Realising he may have given offence, Gabriel backtracked. “Oh, I didn’t mean different in a…Good way. I just mean that you’re more sophisticated than other demons.”

“Thou art more zzzimple-minded than other angelzz,” Beelzebub grumbled, forgetting in their irritation that step 1 of the plan involved friendliness.

“I meant it as a compliment!” Gabriel sighed. “Why do you have to be so sensitive?”

“Because I _am_ like other demonzz,” the Lord of the Flies declared, “and we don’t do complimentzz.”

“Fine,” the archangel muttered. “Then don’t expect me to say anything nice to you ever again.”

“Zzzee if I care,” Beelzebub retorted.

Gabriel made a noise of frustration. “Hmmfph! You’re infuriating.”

“Zzo are you, sunshine.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you too,” Beelzebub said, feeling a heady rush of longing. It reminded them abruptly of the plan. Abandoning subtlety, they leapt right to the point.

“Gabe, I want you to go with me to the tournament,” they blurted out.

The seconds dragged, their heart pounded and one of their eyes twitched. Flies droned loudly about the office, the buzzing ringing in Beelzebub’s ears. They clutched the amber-encased beetle in their hand so tightly that a crack appeared in its smooth surface and a sharp edge sliced into their palm. Their words had been too direct, too sudden, too _much_ all at once - he would never go for it now, their only chance was wasted. He _must_ have heard the desperation in their voice, it had been ridiculously obvious. _Stupid, stupid…_

“To go…with you…” Gabriel echoed, stunned. “To Hell?”

Beelzebub managed to reclaim some of their senses, enough to reply. “Well, yezz,” they said. “That’zz where it’zz being held, zzo obviously you would have to come downstairzz to attend. But,” they added, pre-emptively answering his questions, “I have ideazz for how to make sure no-one recognisezz you. It would be an undercover zzort of thing, you would wear a disguise, pretend to be a demon, keep your wingzz hidden and-”

“Meeting with you for social reasons,” the archangel interrupted, worriedly. “That, uh…that would count as fraternising, surely.”

Palm slippery with blood, Beelzebub gritted their teeth, placed the cracked amber onto their desk and prepared for rejection. It was going to hurt like a sudden blow to the gut, but they had dealt with far worse. Heaven could do no injury to a Prince of Hell that was worse than the punishments of their own devising.

“Zzzo, you don’t want to go,” they stated blandly, retreating behind mental walls.

“Umm, I do _want_ to,” Gabriel said then, as if his opinion had been apparent all along. “I want to see you again, quite a lot actually.”

Beelzebub, a little shocked by this admission, felt their cheeks flush with colour. “You do?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said in a quiet voice, “despite the fact that you’re the Enemy.”

There it was - the moment of uncertainty they had hoped for. Summoning all the persuasive wiles at their disposal, Beelzebub went in for the kill. “I’m not azzking you to betray Heaven, zzunshine,” they said. “There isn’t some golden rule against thizz. I’m just asking you, my temporary colleague, to attend an important event with me, in the zzpirit of co-operation. That’zz all.”

It was what they both needed - some pseudo-logic, some halfway-decent truth which would convince both of them that their connection was valid and understandable. They were no better than a pair of addicts, doing mental gymnastics in order to believe that their shared addiction was something well under control. As long as they could convince themselves that it was, then it would continue, because the thought of going back was inconceivable.

As far as Beelzebub was concerned, Heaven had no glory like the sound of Gabriel’s next words.

“Well, if it’s in the spirit of co-operation, then I guess I can’t say no,” he said. “Yes, I _will_ go with you.”


	6. Butterfly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel puts on a bad Halloween mask. Lots of other stuff happens too.

_“Keep your way far from her, and do not go near the door of her house.” – Proverbs 5:8_

There is no travel brochure available for the Nine Circles of Hell, and there are no trustworthy reviews on TripAdvisor. Unless one counts certain religious and literary texts which rave about eternal punishment, there is no guide to be found with reliable details on the layout or environment.

Besides, Gabriel did not read anything outside of office paperwork, so none of the above would have been helpful.

He had been picturing an endless lake of lava with a few scattered, craggy islands. He had imagined lots of screaming, perhaps even the distasteful smell of burnt flesh. Michael had briefly mentioned crowds and leaking pipes, but Gabriel had still managed to maintain the idea of the burning lake. Even his imaginary perception of Lord Beelzebub’s office had been built into that idea; he had imagined it as a floating block hanging suspended over the lava.

So it surprised him to enter Hell by a secret elevator shaft, and to discover that certain parts of Hell were actually _freezing cold,_ and had no lava in sight.

The sulfurous stench was there all right, but his breath formed a cloud of mist which was illuminated by flickering red light bulbs. There was an eerie silence, pierced by the screeching, rattling metal of the lift. Gabriel was _not_ afraid - he was an exceptionally powerful archangel and had confidence that he could easily thwart any demon in Hell. But _all_ of the demons of Hell? That was at least a cause for caution. Having faith that Beelzebub would not betray him was a foolish notion, so he had fastened a vial of holy water by a small silver chain around his neck. Plan B. Just in case.

There was a shrill _ding_ , and the doors shuddered open.

Gabriel stepped out into an empty, icy hallway, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. His aura felt oppressed by the darkness, despite its own brilliant light. He kept his shoulders back, posture straight, refusing to disgrace Heaven by appearing weak. Hell would never witness his unease.

There was movement down the hallway, and a familiar dour voice echoed in the empty space.

“Zzzeeing you here is like zzpotting a butterfly on a dung heap,” Beelzebub joked in a dry tone.

Blue sparks leapt out of the shadows, from the demon’s snapping fingertips, and flew upwards to light an ancient oil lantern. In the new flickering light, Gabriel blinked about a hundred times, taking in the sight of the Prince of Hell. They were dressed in a new, clean suit, with a multitude of medallions on the lapels. Their shoes shone oily smooth, and their thick black hair even looked as if it may have encountered a comb recently. In full infernal form, their skin was marked by nasty-looking boils and scars and their essence radiated with darkness.

But his eyes were drawn, most of all, to the _wings_. Four large, shimmering, iridescent dragonfly-esque wings, so majestic and surprising that Gabriel was struck speechless for a moment. Nothing like the traditional black feathers of demon wings, these were unique, smooth, gleaming and…beautiful.

“Your wings…” he managed to say, his voice soft with appreciation. “They’re very impressive. Very appropriate, for you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.” His gaze was drawn to the awkward angle of one of the wings. “Is - is one of them broken? It looks a bit crooked.”

Beelzebub avoided the archangel’s searching stare, and shifted their wings behind their back as if trying to cover something up.

“Never mind that,” they said dismissively. “Here’zz your disguizze.”

They held out a bundle of clothing and a mask of some kind. Gabriel held the items at arm’s length, half expecting maggots to explode from the material and bury into his hands.

“What _is_ this?” he grimaced. “Where did these _come_ from? No, wait,” he shook his head. “I don’t want to know.”

“They’re not going to bite,” Beelzebub said. “Probably.”

“ _Probably?_ ” Gabriel repeated incredulously. He gave the clothes a small sniff. “Ugh! They stink! Did something die in these?”

“Don’t be a baby. Wear them, or you can prance into a crowd of demons drezzzed as you are now.” Beelzebub gestured condescendingly to his fashionable, pastel purple outfit. “I’ll not be responsible for the consequencezzz.”

Gabriel grumbled a little more. “Fine,” he sighed eventually, and shrugged off his coat. “At least tell me you have a good place to store my clothes until I get back. These are custom-tailored.”

“I’ll miracle everything onto hangers in my own clothes cupboard,” Beelzebub told him.

“Good.” That was _something,_ anyway.

Gabriel had taken off most of his clothes and handed them to the demon before realising self-consciously that he was displaying a lot more of his bare flesh than most beings in the universe had ever witnessed, other than himself. Also, the chain with the holy water vial was exposed. Meeting their gaze, he was not surprised that Beelzebub was staring. They pointed at his chest, accusingly.

“What’zz that for, zzunshine?”

The archangel resisted a sudden desire to cover himself. “You can’t expect me to _trust_ you,” he sneered.

Their weirdly normal grey- blue eyes flicked from the holy water to his face, and then to several other locations. “Of courzze not,” they decided. “Keep it, then. Juzzt remember I’m your ticket out of Hell. Throw that holy pizzz on me, and thou art zztuck down here.”

“Understood,” Gabriel nodded, and passed Beelzebub his trousers. He noticed that they folded his clothes nicely and neatly before miracling them away. Very fastidious. Very _them._ He smiled.

The demon costume consisted of a big tacky black cloak, dirty grey rags and a matted purple wig. The finishing touch was a tasteless Halloween mask which one of Beelzebub’s agents had picked up from an Earth shop. That agent was on duty for the next two days, so there was no danger of them recognising the item. The mask was black with pointed ears, and covered the top half of Gabriel’s face.

Beelzebub stood closely and sniffed him. They reached up, surprising the archangel by smearing some sulfurous grime onto his jaw and neck to complete the picture.

“You have to _smell_ like a demon,” they told him. “Lots of uzz have very good nosezz.”

“Oh,” he said.

It was very strange to be _touched_ by Beelzebub, or to be touched at all. It was deemed unnecessary, in general, for angels to touch each other. They used body language: bowing, waving, pointing, etcetera. One was expected to assist an injured angel, or to catch one if they stumbled, but social touching was viewed as excessive. Gabriel had received countless passive aggressive memos from colleagues after he had clapped their shoulders, given a friendly punch or slapped their backs in what _he_ had intended as an encouraging gesture of goodwill.

What Beelzebub was doing, rubbing fingers over his skin, was different. It was not unpleasant. Tingly, actually. His skin was flushed with warmth.

The Prince of Hell stepped back to examine their handiwork. “Hm,” they shrugged. “Thizz will do. Juzzt one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Your aura,” Beelzebub steadily met his gaze. “It’zz a bit obvious.”

“I’m far too bright and shiny for Hell, I suppose,” Gabriel said, and Beelzebub rolled their eyes.

“Sure, butterfly,” they said. _Butterfly?_ “You’ll need to try to think of sinful thingzz, to dampen all that shininess.”

“I’m an angel,” Gabriel stated, flustered. “I’m not capable of thinking sinful things.”

“Juzzt try, butterfly.”

Gabriel lacked imagination, but he did try. He kept his mind far from the Doubts, because those were too painful to focus on with any intensity. He looked down instead, and thought about Beelzebub’s slender ankles in those fishnet socks. He thought about touching their lovely, shimmery wings. He thought about the covetous way they had looked at him, months ago, in that green car in Tadfield. Out of his control, his pulse sped up at the memory.

“Whatever you did there worked, zzort of,” Beelzebub said. The corners of their lips tugged upwards, amused, and Gabriel’s heart nearly stopped dead. His favourite demon was _smiling,_ actually _smiling,_ and it transformed their face _._ He grinned so widely that his face should have cracked in two, not knowing why. He was a fool.

“Shall we go, then?” he asked excitedly.

“Let’zzz go,” Beelzebub agreed, and led him towards the tournament.

Part of Gabriel’s mind was still screaming that this was wrong, idiotic, _against the rules,_ but he turned that part of his brain off. It felt right, as much as most of the things which used to make sense to him. He refused to think anything else.

~#~

Excitement was never in short supply in Hell.

To be clear, however, this excitement was usually better defined as _persistent agitation._ Paranoia about one’s demonic neighbours, fear of dismemberment and awareness of a multitude of dangers were normal facts of life for the residents of Hell. Demons existed in a constant state of agitation, expecting the worst from each other, often for good reasons. Excitement of the enjoyable, fun variety was comparatively rare. Therefore, when there was something like an Apocalypse, or a tournament, or a karaoke night - anything to warrant a day off - demons got riled up, all that bottled-up aggression and agitation spilling over. They partied _hard_. Anything to escape the persistent unpleasantness of everyday Hell for a short time.

All the frustrated aggression from the cancelled Apocalypse meant that this infernal partying was particularly vigorous, even by Hellish standards. The added element of competition made it even more so.

While tournament events took place in two large, dome-ceilinged arenas surrounded by crowds of spectators, loud partying took place everywhere else in the built-up areas of Hell. There was alcohol (just ‘alcohol’; Hell was not particular enough to care about the subtle distinctions between human drinks, and no-one was entirely sure where this stuff came from anyway), terrible droning music, all kinds of tooth-rotting snacks, and a gratuitous number of smoke machines. Demons really liked smoke machines.

Lord Beelzebub had a spiky black throne overlooking the main arena, along with several other Princes of Hell - scaly Leviathan swinging her dragon tail, Asmodeus dressed in tight scarlet leather, Berith already asleep and Astaroth giggling maniacally. There was an extra-large, extra-spiky throne next to Beelzebub’s, kept out of respect for Lucifer, but no-one expected the sulking Ultimate Adversary to actually make an appearance. There were other seats below and next to the thrones, where respected Dukes, Under-Dukes and other underlings were making their positions in the infernal hierarchy clear to envious onlookers by proximity to the Dark Council.

Although it raised eyebrows, everyone knew better than to question the Lord of the Flies when they arrived and announced that a strange, tall demon named Luvart was going to be sitting directly next to their throne during the tournament.

Duke Hastur, suspicious by nature, and Under-Duke Dagon, who had really just been hoping to sit next to Beelzebub, both aggressively eyed this interloper with the stupid purple hair. There were ten million demons in the Nine Circles, so it was not unheard of to meet someone they did not know, but it _was_ unusual to see the Lord of the Flies take a particular liking to _anyone,_ let alone some lesser demon of no apparent rank. The Princes of Hell took note as well, several of them wondering if Beelzebub had decided to take a lover. Asmodeus glared at this upstart ‘Luvart’ with instant hatred.

Beelzebub, ignoring the stares, reclined in a relaxed heap onto their throne, wings splayed out, and clapped their hands.

“Begin,” they said, appearing bored. The gathered demons cheered raucously. The tournament began.

The first event - which was baiting Hell-Beasts - began with the enraged roar of something which resembled a cross between a crocodile and a duck. Demons taunted it with insults and sharp implements, and then ran away as it chased them around the arena. It was not very sophisticated entertainment, for sure, but the crowd was loving it. A tray of drinks was being passed around, and Beelzebub took two, offering one to Gabriel. The archangel, whose head was curiously darting side to side, fascinated and appalled by everything, took the drink but leaned sideways to whisper, “I don’t ingest liquids.”

Beelzebub had already finished their own drink. “Not even to blend in?” they whispered back.

“It smells bad,” said Gabriel. “Like chemicals.”

“It’zzz alcohol, zzunshine,” Beelzebub told him. “The point izzn’t the zzzmell. Or the taste.”

“What _is_ the point, then?”

“Drink it and find out.”

Without even looking at the archangel, Beelzebub could sense the war going on within his head as he considered the liquid in his cup. It really was thrilling, to have Gabriel sitting there, just inches away, their own scandalous secret hidden from all other eyes. Flaunting that secret right under the noses of the Dark Council was a huge risk, given the fury which would be unleashed if they discovered that Beelzebub had brought an archangel - especially _that_ archangel - into their midst. The Lord of the Flies feared none of their lazy peers, but all of them together? That would spell destruction.

Apparently, too many centuries of dull monotony had made Beelzebub hungry for danger. Despite their habitual air of disinterest, they were still a rebel at heart, wearing medallions upon their breast which signified old victories in rebellions against Satan himself. None of those victories had been won without risk. Besides, soon enough, if the plan progressed as they hoped, Gabriel would soon be seduced and Fall, and the Dark Council would be forced to congratulate them for a highly successful temptation.

And after that, Beelzebub fantasised, Gabriel could always sit by their side like this.

Perhaps it was overly brazen, given the surrounding company, but they felt compelled to touch him. Slinging an arm over the side of their throne, Beelzebub rested their hand on Gabriel’s broad shoulder. He reacted visibly to the contact, nearly spilling the drink which he had still not decided whether or not to ‘ingest’.

“Hello,” he said redundantly, glancing at the hand.

Beelzebub’s chest was heavy with longing. “Hello, yourzzelf.”

When Gabriel did not shrug away or make an effort to remove their hand, Beelzebub started moving their thumb in small circles, massaging gently over the tacky black coat. Although they returned their gaze to the arena, where someone’s torso had just been crushed by the huge bill of the crocodile-duck creature, they kept the hand on the archangel’s shoulder. It was a point of contact between the two of them which went unexplained and uncommented upon. Something else to add to the list of behaviours they were pretending were normal.

Sitting further down the steps, Dagon was glaring intently at this social-climbing ‘Luvart’, horrified that anyone had managed to steal Beelzebub’s favour so quickly, without her even noticing. Between paperwork, filing, overseeing preparations and hours spent alone in their office, when had the Lord of the Flies even had spare time to go out and socialise with random demons?

“Who _is_ that?” Dagon hissed to Hastur, baring sharp fangs.

“I’ve never seen him before either,” the Duke of Hell replied. “Bastard.”

Dagon gritted her teeth, noticing with a jolt of jealousy that Beelzebub was rubbing the stranger’s shoulder. “We should wait until he’s alone and confront him,” she snarled quietly.

Hastur thought for a while. All of his thoughts were nasty, most of them needlessly cruel and not worth recording. One even involved the generous application of red-hot pincers. “I have an idea how to deal with him,” he said, and hurriedly whispered his plan to Dagon, whose grin was nothing short of malevolent.

There was a rumble of surprise in the crowd as the crocodile-duck finished off another competitor, and the last remaining survivor was given a medal. Blood lust was ripe in the air. Gabriel, trying to act inconspicuous, let out a half-hearted cheer and pumped his fist. That backfired, because all the demons nearby swivelled their heads and narrowed their eyes at him. Perhaps the one who had been discorporated was a friend?

Beelzebub’s hand, still upon his shoulder, tightened briefly. “What are you trying to do?”

“Blending in,” Gabriel whispered. “Not well, apparently.”

“Just do azz I do,” Beelzebub buzzed low.

“But you’re not doing _anything_ ,” he pointed out. “Not even cheering.”

“Precizzely. It’zz beneath uzz to pick favouritezz.”

More drinks came around on trays, and Gabriel watched as Beelzebub held a cup to their lips and poured the liquid into their mouth. He still had the original cup in his fist, untasted. Since its invention, humans and alcohol had always gone hand in hand, although he was unsure why. From what he could tell, it just made people walk funny and talk nonsense, and Gabriel had no interest in making a fool of himself, even while in disguise. But Beelzebub was the most sensible demon he knew, and if they were ingesting this liquid without any obvious reaction to it, perhaps it would not be a complete disaster to taste a bit.

Today was certainly a day of firsts.

The archangel stuck his tongue into the cup for a taste. Yes, it tasted bad. He scrunched his face and took a tentative sip. Holding the burning liquid on his tongue, he tried to remember how to swallow. On the border of panicking and spitting it out, he finally figured out how to move the correct muscles, and swallowed. Pleased with himself, Gabriel looked around and smiled at Beelzebub.

They were watching him with a curious expression. “I’m proud of you, butterfly,” they said.

A demon, proud of an archangel? That could only be worrying news, but Gabriel felt oddly light-headed from the eye contact and ignored his own uneasiness. He had been ignoring his better instincts for a while now, was even getting quite good at it. All about getting into character, of course, for this whole demon disguise thing, to dampen his aura. He cleared his throat and took another minute sip. There was a warm, tingly sensation starting in his body.

“Why are you calling me that?” he asked after a few moments. “Butterfly, I mean.”

“On Earth, butterfliezz are among the most stunning of insectzz.”

“Okay?” That had not exactly clarified the matter for him, but Beelzebub did not explain further.

Hours passed, and the tournament continued, becoming more violent and competitive as the night progressed. Some of the Hell Beasts were more dangerous than others, one huge wolf-like creature almost managing to jump over the wall of the arena, which warranted a gasp of alarm and some hasty miracle-working. Meanwhile, Gabriel had succeeded in finishing his drink, but with his head swimming just a bit, decided to stop there.

Beelzebub had no idea exactly how long the archangel was planning on staying down in Hell. The tournament was expected to last at least a week (with breaks in the competitions), and there was no way Gabriel would stay away from his duties for more than a day. Then again, he was definitely not _bored_ \- in fact, he would occasionally make enthusiastic comments about the weapons the demonic competitors were using.

“Old school”, he said. “Not like complicated modern contraptions.”

When his favourites survived to the next round, he would grin like an idiot and make Beelzebub just want to drag him onto the throne on top of them and kiss his infuriating, smiling mouth right in front of everyone. It would certainly cause a stir. Might even be fun. But the idea of displaying so much passion in front of the forces of Hell made Beelzebub uncomfortable, so they restrained the urge. Restraint was their _thing._ Most of the time.

“Where are your flies?” Gabriel asked unexpectedly, tearing his gaze away from the current bout. He had only drunk the one cup of alcohol but, based on the way he was swaying, it had an effect.

“I left them in my office,” Beelzebub told him. “They don’t like big crowdzz. If you like, we can go there afterwardzz and I’ll introduce you.” It was the perfect excuse to get him alone. Pent-up anticipation crawled under their skin, threatening to tear its way to the surface and destroy all obstacles in its path.

Gabriel nodded enthusiastically. “Let’s do that,” he said, then hesitated. “They won’t bite me, will they?”

“Not unlezzz I tell them to.”

“That’s not reassuring,” he grunted, “but I’m not afraid of insects.”

“Thou hast not encountered my best zzzwarm,” Beelzebub told him proudly. “They could tear you apart, piece by tiny piece, and lay eggs in your chewed-up remainzzz.”

“Ugh. Disgusting,” he said prissily.

The archangel threw a particularly haughty look at them, and the Lord of the Flies was once again reminded that, underneath all of the pretences of their alliance, he was still their adversary. Sometimes, being around him or hearing his stupid, pompous voice on the interoffice phone, it was too easy to forget the huge chasm of ancient enmity between them. They were still on different sides. If push came to shove, and there was no other choice, perhaps they would still destroy each other. But if Gabriel Fell…well, then there would be nothing keeping them apart.

Movement caught Beelzebub’s eye and they broke off their train of thought.

After spending the last few hours lurking nearby, Dagon and Hastur appeared to finally be making a move. Beelzebub had been aware of the disapproving glares and obvious scheming going on between the two of them. It was always easy to tell when they were plotting something. They got a certain glint in their eyes.

Hastur waltzed over and bowed. “Lord Beelzebub.” He gave an oily smile.

“Hazztur.”

“Dagon and I would like to inform you that we’ve entered a competition,” he said. “We’re going to Play Ball in the other arena.”

Beelzebub glanced at Dagon, whose face was twisted up in glee. Not a good sign. They maintained a disinterested expression and waved dismissively. “I wish you luck, then,” they said. “If either of you get dizzcorporated, be sure to generate new physical formzzz quickly. I’ll need you back at work before long.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dagon. “But we’ve a bit of a problem. See, we’re lacking some teammates, and we’re hoping that our new friend here could join us.”

_Oh, shit._

Gabriel straighted up in his seat. “You want me on your team?” he asked. The archangel had never backed down from a challenge in his entire existence, especially not one coming from a demon, and he was not about to begin now.

“Yes,” Hastur grinned nastily. “What better way to celebrate a new friendship than to play a game together?”

Beelzebub growled warningly. “Hastur…”

“Well, it certainly sounds like fun,” Gabriel said before they could think of a decent excuse to stop him. “Yes, I’ll join your team!”

“Excellent,” Dagon grinned, all fangs and barely concealed malice. “We’ll meet you there.”

 _Shit._ There was nothing else for it. Gabriel clearly had no idea what was in store, and needed protection. A subtle, low-level miracle from the side of the arena was not going to cut it - this situation required drastic action.

“I’ll join the team as well,” Beelzebub announced, rising to their feet.

Their underlings did a double take and glanced at each other in shock. The Lord of the Flies _never_ participated in such competitions, usually viewing such activities as the behaviour of lower demons, beneath the dignity of a Prince of Hell. It complicated Hastur and Dagon’s oh-so-cunning plan, which was clearly to injure and humiliate ‘Luvart’ during the game.

Others were paying attention now, having overheard parts of the conversation.

“ _You’re_ Playing Ball, Beelzebub?” Asmodeus said, shoving off the demon who had been sitting in his lap.

“What of it?” Beelzebub snarled.

“Then I’ll form a team of my own,” the other Prince declared, red eyes gleaming. “We’ll put on a show for everyone.”

This entire thing had very quickly got out of hand. Before anyone had time to properly consider the situation, the two teams were waiting underneath the second arena, competitively eyeing each other. In their hands were a variety of bats, sticks and rackets. The floor shook with the cheering of the infernal crowd above, dust raining down upon the waiting players. Wings brushed wings in the cramped space.

Beelzebub cracked their neck and stretched, preparing for the horror of actually having to move their stiff, oft-unused limbs. Opposite, Asmodeus’ team consisted of Leviathan and two muscular-looking Dukes whose names Beelzebub had forgotten. No-one else could possibly know, but the teams were probably quite even, in terms of supernatural power. In terms of brute strength, however, it was a very different story. Asmodeus’ team had the advantage there.

Next to them, Gabriel cleared his throat. “So what are the rules?” he asked loudly.

Everyone stared at him, and Beelzebub felt a bead of sweat trickle down their neck. They lashed out with a sharp-toed shoe and kicked the archangel. “Oh!” Gabriel exclaimed painfully, and forced a laugh. “Ha-ha, just a joke, yes. That’s something some stupid _angel_ would say, isn’t it? Obviously there are no rules.”

There was a wave of embarrassed chuckling from the other demons.

Beelzebub grabbed a handful of Gabriel’s clothing and dragged him a few steps away from Hastur and Dagon. “Thou dost not know the trouble you’ve got uzzz into,” they hissed.

“It’s just a game,” Gabriel shrugged arrogantly. “And I’m in wonderful physical form, as I’m sure you noticed earlier.”

“There’zzz a _ring of hellfire_ in this game,” Beelzebub whispered. It would do no damage to the other contestants, but to Gabriel, touching it would be a death sentence.

They felt him tense instantly, all pride vanishing. “Oh,” he breathed.

With a screech of already rusted metal, the floor above them dragged open. Light flooded down, illuminating the much paler colour of Gabriel’s face. Hellfire roared in angry plumes of orange and gold, encircling the arena. Both teams stepped out into the light, accompanied by enthusiastic cheering from the forces of Hell. It was not every day that they got to see several members of the Dark Council face off against each other. This was a special treat. Lining up on either side of a red line in the dirt, the teams bared teeth at each other. Beelzebub was standing opposite hulking Leviathan, whose reptilian tail swished menacingly. Dagon was hopping from foot to foot eagerly, glancing at ‘Luvart’ with ill intent.

Well, wasn’t this just _perfect?_

There were three shrill sounds indicating the countdown, and then a bell rung, and three balls fell down from the ceiling. After that, it was quite _literal_ pandemonium.

Hastur started off the match on a high note by spitefully striking Gabriel’s legs out from under him with a bat, while Asmodeus had moved before the countdown had even finished, and grabbed the largest of the three balls. The fact that he cheated, even in a game with no rules, came as no surprise. It would be a strange world indeed if demons went around _not_ cheating. Avoiding Leviathan’s flailing claws and landing a blow with their stick, Beelzebub darted forward and, with a gust of wings, leapt to catch the middle ball. Despite Dagon’s best efforts, the two muscled Dukes had managed to beat her to the smallest ball.

Playing Ball involved five sets of goal posts, all of which were outside the ring of hellfire which encircled the whole arena. There was a hanging net suspended in the centre of the arena and an ice rink in the far half of the circular playing area. And, of course, all the players were equipped (armed would be more accurate) with sticks, bats and rackets. Torn between protecting a certain very flammable archangel and teaching their peers a lesson for challenging them, Beelzebub paused in midair. Meanwhile, Asmodeus was making a break for the goal posts, pursued by Hastur.

To their surprise, Gabriel was already on his feet and successfully blocking Leviathan’s attempts to pursue Beelzebub. The dragon demon snarled and partially transformed into her monstrous form, all armoured scales and long fangs, but the archangel seemed unfazed, placing quick, accurate strikes with a bat, moving like the wind. Like lightning. He was glorious, really. The crowd was going insane, thinking this stranger was one of their own, an underdog risen to the heights of fame.

Beelzebub was mesmerised, adrenaline rushing through their entire body. They would have enjoyed watching the duel unfold further, but there was a game to be won.

They ran through the hellfire, feeling the searing heat against their skin, and secured several points for the team by knocking the middle ball into two sets of goal posts. Then one of the two muscular Dukes intercepted their path and forced Beelzebub to perform evasive manoeuvres. They dodged a blow and struck out hard, hearing a crunch as their stick connected with the Duke’s jaw.

Across the arena, Dagon was on the ice, having wrestled the smaller ball away from the other beefy Duke. There was blood on her fangs, on the ice, dripping from the other demon’s side. Elsewhere, Asmodeus and Hastur were going toe to toe, exchanging colourful insults more than actual blows.

Over the clamouring of the crowd, there was an extra loud roar and a visceral, tearing sound.

Panting, Beelzebub looked away from their opponent to see that Gabriel’s duel with Leviathan was getting even more brutal. He was hanging onto her back _,_ and had torn one of her leathery wings. Black ichor was pouring from the wound. The dragon demon was struggling to transform, standing ten feet tall, enraged out of her mind. Claws flashed and were deflected. The sight was so exhilarating, it was as if Armageddon had actually begun, and Heaven and Hell were finally, inevitably locked together in a struggle to the death.

Alarmingly, though, the two wrestling beings had moved far closer to the ring of hellfire during their battle.

Distracted, the Lord of the Flies barely dodged the next blow aimed at their head by the muscly Duke. Determined to get over to Gabriel quickly, the game almost entirely forgotten, Beelzebub mustered all of the old combat abilities which had atrophied at their desk. They launched at their opponent in a flurry of impossibly fast movements, knocking him back long enough to secure an opportunity to run past.

Gabriel was feeling the licking heat of deadly flames at his back now, limiting the space he could use to avoid the scaly demon’s fangs and slashing claws. The vile beast was towering over him now, with a maw so wide and full of teeth that it could have discorporated him with a single bite.

“WHO ARE YOU?” the demon boomed, its voice a snarl which shook the ground.

Gabriel knew what he wanted to say. _I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel, vile fiend! Cower before me!_ But he was still trying to get into character as a demon, so instead he rolled sideways away from the hellfire, got to his feet again and with blood pounding violently through his veins, shouted,

“I’m the Masked Butterfly!”

Yeah, it had sounded better in his head.

Leviathan lunged at him again, a fury of blood and vengeance. But then, with a sharp turn, the dragon demon changed course as a much smaller figure flew up behind and kicked its huge reptilian head. Beelzebub’s wings shone molten and shimmering in the flame light. Gabriel sidestepped as the two Princes of Hell flailed at each other, putting distance between himself and that awful, destructive fire.

“Take this and throw it!” Beelzebub yelled, chucking the ball to Gabriel. He looked at it, saw the outline of the goal posts through the fire, and tossed it as hard as he could.

Barely a second later, there was a sharp _ding-ding-ding_ of a bell.

“Game over!” announced a demon with a megaphone, standing at the top of the arena wall. “Lord Beelzebub’s team takes this victory!”

Asmodeus had been kept busy by Hastur for most of the match, unable to get enough points to make a difference, while Dagon and the two muscly Dukes, all of them tangled in the net in the centre of the arena, were at a standstill as well. Gabriel, swelling with the thrill of victory, laughed aloud and looked towards Beelzebub with a wide grin, only to notice with a jolt that Leviathan was still coming for him.

He staggered, barely avoiding the razor-like claws that would have torn his flesh apart.

“I will not be defeated by some upstart nobody!” the dragon demon roared, skidding past onto the ice. Her pride was wounded far worse than her body. “How dare you! Come here and face the consequences of-”

Beelzebub’s footsteps pounded across to Gabriel, and their hand slipped into his. There was a snap of fingers, a rushing sensation, and then, miraculously, they were both elsewhere.

The roaring waves of cheering faded to a distant thrum.

The roiling glow of hellfire was gone, replaced by dim artificial lighting. Gabriel looked around, surprised to find himself in a room lined with shelves of files and notes. There were old relics lying haphazardly around, a large black desk standing in the centre of the space. A gold-rimmed phone was sitting on the desk next to a collection of amber-encased beetles. Buzzing filled his ears, drawing his attention to the hamster-sized flies which were coming over to investigate him. They looked oddly fluffy, not at all what he had expected. One bumped curiously against his arm, wings a blur, and then several more landed upon his clothing.

“Impressive,” he said, chest heaving as he recovered from the high of the battle.

“ _You_ were imprezzzive out there,” Beelzebub breathed heavily. Gabriel glanced down at their round, upturned face, and froze entirely.

Their direct stare was just as covetous as it had been in that car in Tadfield - perhaps even more so. Enveloping him, their aura radiated a hunger so potent that the archangel could feel it seeping into his pores like poison. It would have repelled him, if it had come from any other source. His hand was still joined with theirs, the hot skin of a sticky palm pressed against his own. Their grip was steady, uncompromising, possessive, telling him in no uncertain terms that, for all his impressiveness, he was still in enemy territory, in Beelzebub’s lair, under _their_ protection.

Already heightened from the physical exertion, Gabriel made a conscious effort to _not_ start shaking.

With their free hand, Beelzebub reached up and removed the sweaty Halloween mask from his face, and then the purple wig. Leviathan’s black ichor dripped from his sleeve. Gabriel noticed every small brush of fingertips on his face, intently focusing on every tiny sensation.

“I thought you demons didn’t do compliments,” he managed to say, voice catching in his throat.

“Don’t expect me to make a habit of it, sunshine,” Beelzebub whispered, up on tiptoes, hot breath tickling his chin. They were so _present_ in that moment, filling his senses with the scent of sulfur and the heat of their stare.

Every move was a temptation, every small change of expression a deadly trap. There was so much danger here, and Gabriel was nowhere near as worried about Falling as he should have been. The part of his mind which was constantly screaming about the rules was telling him to shove the demon away, throw the holy water immediately, destroy this loathsome creature who had the gall to attempt to seduce him. Destroy the threat. Remove the danger.

But, at the same time, his blood was singing a different tune. His mind was at war with itself. No, wrong - his mind was _lost entirely,_ struggling to latch onto anything which made sense in an ocean of confusion. Instead of certainties, all he knew was that the Great Plan was a joke, there was an angel in the world who could breathe hellfire, his existence could mean _anything_ and God was always, always silent. Why was God always silent? Beelzebub was about to _ruin_ their perfect, satisfying working relationship, and for what? What did it all mean? Why were they being drawn together like this, opposite ends of magnets pulling inexorably towards what could only be mutual destruction? Gabriel could _feel_ the edge of sanity approaching, but was frozen, still waiting, still teetering on the brink.

Cruelly taking their time, Beelzebub moved their hand slowly, caressingly, from his wrist to his elbow and further upwards, and that felt nice. Too nice.

“Beez,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t.” _Don’t let me think anymore. Take what you want from me. Take away my doubts, demon. Take everything._

Reaching the collar of his coat, Beelzebub grabbed fistfuls of the material and stared up with those wanton eyes for a moment longer. Strange, un-demonic eyes. Such a lovely colour. Gabriel was almost relieved when Beelzebub yanked his head down and forcefully mashed their mouth against his.


	7. Game-changer.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ineffable are effed. Unfortunately, dealing with feelings in a mature way is out of the question.

_“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy is fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the LORD. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.” – Song of Solomon 8:6-7_

Today was certainly a day of firsts, and for beings more than eight thousand years old, that was saying something.

The initial clash of mouths had been inelegant, although exhilarating. Beelzebub had slammed their mouth up against Gabriel’s with all the Hellish passion a demon could summon, but unfortunately, they possessed only a theoretical understanding of the act of kissing. Instead of approaching the unknown territory with caution, they had opted for blind, brute force, and went straight in with too much tongue and extremely sloppy aim. Gabriel, equally as ignorant of such things but under the false assumption that Beelzebub knew what they were doing, found himself in a passive role in the exchange, weathering a relentless barrage of bruising lips and bumping teeth.

And there were _hands,_ everywhere and anywhere. Beelzebub had used fistfuls of Gabriel’s tacky black coat as a method of pulling his head down, but after contact was made, their hands went roaming underneath. The bulk and shape of Gabriel’s physical form was a foreign land, and Beelzebub went exploring there with abandon, tugging roughly at clothing, finding the delicious heat of freshly exposed skin, stroking, kneading, threatening scrapes with sharp nails.

Gabriel’s hands, meanwhile, hovered uncertainly near the place where Beelzebub’s lovely, shimmery wings met their back, shaking despite his best efforts _not_ to display weakness. It was so overwhelming to be touched like this, with such unrestrained, aggressive desire - to be touched by _Lord Beelzebub,_ of all the beings in the universe. Everything about this was too much and not enough. It was pleasure and pain, and he needed _more_. Panic and confusion pounded within his skull. He needed to _stop_ over-thinking, immediately, or this trembling was going to get much worse, and that would be embarrassing.

Beelzebub tore away, eyes bright with excitement. They went to the office door, opened it, and with a silent gesture, instructed the flies to go outside. Gabriel had almost completely forgotten they were even there, filling the room with their buzzing. One of them was huge, cat-sized, slow-moving, and he could have sworn the big creature gave him a judging glance as it headed out the door.

Returning to him, the demon smiled. “Hurry up and touch me already, butterfly,” they growled, and stood on tiptoes again to reach his lips.

Gabriel, hating to be outdone, grasped hold of the base of one of their wings and slipped his other hand to the back of their head, threading fingers into thick black hair. Beelzebub, already riding upon a blissful surge of adrenaline and victory, breathed in sharply at the new sensation. The archangel’s grip was tight and wobbly, as if he was holding onto them for dear life. Small, desperate sounds came from his throat, igniting such aching desire in Beelzebub that they feared being discorporated by it.

If every last member of the Dark Council and Satan himself had stormed through the doors at that moment, Beelzebub would quite happily have murdered all of them and immediately returned to kissing Gabriel.

But, given their height difference, Beelzebub found that it was impossible to simultaneously kiss him and properly press their bodies together. The angles were all wrong. Inconvenient.

Tilting forward, never breaking contact, they pushed him backwards, following his unsteady footsteps. Together, in a mess of inexperienced groping and stumbling, demon and angel made their way around the desk in the centre of Beelzebub’s office. Wings and elbows knocked into unseen objects, and there was a smashing sound as something toppled over and broke. It was beyond their ability to care.

Reaching the other side of the desk, Beelzebub shoved the archangel, and he fell backwards onto the chair, breathing hard. They looked down at him now, placed hands against the back of the chair on either side of his head, leaned in to savour the ozone scent of his dark hair. He was gorgeous like this, all dishevelled hair, flushed skin and swollen lips, conflicted and wild-eyed. The pupils of his violet eyes were blown wide. Every muscle in his body was tense. Somehow Gabriel simultaneously looked ready for another fight and on the brink of pleading for more.

Sweet butter-cream full of razor blades, that was their angel. Heavenly grace and glory, with a side order of wrath and bitter ire.

His big, trembling hands rose up to stroke through Beelzebub’s clothing, tugging slightly. Gabriel let out an exquisite whine, shifting in the chair, glaring at them.

“What are you waiting for?” he demanded bitterly, with such frustration that Beelzebub’s breath hitched. “You’re getting what you wanted, so do it already.”

They clambered over him, their lean legs atop his much larger, muscular thighs. Their office chair was large and ostentatious. It had always been too large for one person - more of a throne, really. Gabriel clutched tightly at their clothes, shuddering at the feeling of the weight over him. A heavy pulse was throbbing steadily between Beelzebub’s legs as they stared into their archangel’s eyes. Arousal coiled in their lower body, tight knots of desire needing so badly to unravel.

“Tell me _you_ want it,” Beelzebub whispered, giving the tip of his nose a light lick.

“What?” he moaned. They shifted further on top of him, enjoying the heat shared between their still-clothed bodies.

“Tell me you want it,” they repeated, giving his shoulder a sharp shake. “Or I’ll do nothing at all.”

It was a gamble, testing him like that - it was obvious that part of him was still actively _searching_ for a way to escape the situation. But a proper temptation was worth nothing if the tempted party never actually admitted to being seduced. That would take all the fun out of it. If the two of them went down this road, Beelzebub wanted it to be clear that it was done by choice: one which both of them were making. Collective responsibility and all that.

“Beez, please…” Gabriel whimpered, rocking up against them.

“Zzzzay it.” Beelzebub intentionally buzzed in his ear, licked a stripe up his neck and felt his entire body shudder. “Zzzay you’re going to behave, Gabriel. Zzzay you’ll be _zzzuch_ a good angel for me.”

The tendons in his neck shifted, and he squeezed his eyes shut, muscles twitching in his face even more intensely. He struggled endlessly with the ironic contradictions of that request. It went against all his internal programming to do as a demon instructed. Despite the fact that he had already silently given the reins to Beelzebub, admitting that out loud would wound his pride. And then there was the screaming in his mind, telling him to stop at once before this went too far, before it became irreversible. It was all far too much to deal with.

Watching Gabriel think, Beelzebub almost expected steam to begin pouring from his ears. They waited, trying to be patient when all they wanted to do in that moment was to rip the beautiful archangel open and take everything he was capable of giving. Make him _theirs,_ finally. Eventually, he opened his eyes again and when he did, there was something broken and resigned in his gaze. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.

“I want this,” he said, weakly. “I’ll behave, Beez. Just…don’t stop. Don’t let me think anymore.”

Beelzebub responded impulsively by snapping their fingers. Suddenly, they were both extremely naked, their clothes miracled into the next room.

Gabriel’s eyes were wide, his body tense and still, not knowing how to react to this abrupt intimacy. Suddenly his lap was full of bare skin and lovely, unbearable warmth. For a moment, Beelzebub regretted the decision - perhaps it would have been more pleasurable to slowly take their clothing off piece by piece, rather than all at once - but they were soon distracted by the amount of tan, smooth flesh available to touch, the expanses of muscle and dark brown hair which made up Gabriel’s physical form. They were greedy with it, unable to keep their hands in any one place for more than a second or two.

“Zzzo beautiful,” they sighed, slurping and grasping every available inch of salty flesh they could reach. They probably left scratches in many places, maybe even a bite mark or two, but that was to be expected.

“Your skin…” Gabriel whispered hoarsely, and Beelzebub realised that he was examining the festering patches and nasty scars which covered their entire body. If they had not known better, they would have called his expression _concerned._ Not willing to have a mood-killing conversation about their poor skin condition, Beelzebub sought a way to distract him.

And, well. Their eyes travelled downwards. If it had surprised Beelzebub that Gabriel had fully functional genitalia, then it was hardly a _bad_ surprise. It would make sex a far less complicated challenge, anyway. Biting his ear, the demon reached down between their bodies and grasped his engorged cock with one of their hands.

Gabriel let out a startled noise, which was followed by an unexpected, holy white rush of electricity. Beelzebub was shocked as both of them were abruptly flung off the chair by explosive force. Barely catching the edge of the desk, they blinked in surprise and looked up over Gabriel’s shoulder to see that the room was obscured by huge, white feathers. Softness pressed against their face, smelling of clouds and ozone and violently sunny days.

“Umm,” Gabriel blushed, leaning against them and shaking. “You surprised me, there. I think my wings just sort of…appeared. Never happened me before.”

“You think?” Beelzebub could not help but smile secretly next to his shoulder. The archangel was radiant, his aura no longer hidden, and its light enveloped them as much as those white, soft feathers. And his wings were _big_. He must have had a wingspan of nearly twenty feet, both of them fully outstretched. Some of the primaries were flecked with silver and shimmering lilac. Instinctively, their own wings flexed at the sight. Visions of soaring through the clear skies of Heaven flitted through their mind and were banished.

Gabriel, partially on top of Beelzebub now, gave an experimental, fluttery kiss against their neck and shifted his hips so his hardness pressed against their thigh. He groaned, thrust his hips, and Beelzebub was no longer distracted by the appearance of so many delightful feathers.

“Zzzit back down, zzunshine,” they buzzed.

Gabriel sat, obediently, without complaint, fanning his wings out over the arms of the chair. His receptive arms eagerly accepted Beelzebub’s presence there. He was no longer trying to disguise the trembling in his legs.

Panting with anticipation, Beelzebub grabbed one of Gabriel’s hands and drew two fingers to their mouth, licking them thoroughly. Hearing the sounds the archangel made was absolute _sin_ and it caused the white-hot coils of arousal in their lower body to tighten even more.

“Beez, please, please, hurry up, please,” he begged. His free hand was on their hip, applying pressure.

They shifted upwards, adjusting position, and moved his hand down between their legs.

Oh. Well. That was _something._

Beelzebub’s eyes rocked back into their head, and for the first time, it was _them_ making the embarrassing noises now. All by himself, Gabriel seemed to have grasped the idea of what he was supposed to do, because he moved his fingers again without guidance. He was inept and inexperienced, but it didn’t matter much. Beelzebub had never been touched so intimately before, especially by an angel. Absolute nonsense started spilling from their lips, their body jerking spasmodically when Gabriel happened to brush something sensitive down there.

“Nghhhzzzz, Gabriel, butterfly, my angel, mine, mine. Zzzzzo pretty, zzzo good for me, uzzz together, everything.”

Acting without much consideration, they sucked hard on a fleshy part of his neck. Gabriel withdrew his fingers from their sex more out of surprise than anything else and yelped. There was a metallic tang upon Beelzebub’s lips, and a purpling mark upon the angel’s jugular which they were strangely proud of.

“Can’t I…” he whimpered. “I mean, aren’t we going to…” He gestured desperately with his eyes towards his throbbing member, seeking permission. It was not an act of mercy or anything so utterly pathetic, but Beelzebub moved anyway, shifting their body over him, and carefully, inelegantly sank down onto Gabriel’s cock.

“Oh, God,” he whined, and closed his eyes.

Waves of energy crashed over them, and Beelzebub blinked, surprised. No-one had warned them that the physical joining was only a small part of the experience. Irradiated by the strength and power of Gabriel’s essence, they reached out as fiercely as possible with their own, seeking to overwhelm his light with their darkness, and claim him for Hell. But, instead, upon another metaphysical plane, one in which neither of them were bound by physics, their energies combined in a way which was impossible to define and impossible for Beelzebub to control. Gabriel was _bleeding out_ a specific sort of energy so powerful and natural that it caused Beelzebub’s spirit to pulse with feelings which no demon should have been capable of experiencing. It was…it was _terrifying_.

It was too much. This game they were playing was suddenly, completely out of their control.

Beelzebub’s body convulsed as their spirit soared somewhere it should not have been soaring. They felt Gabriel clutch their hips hard, definitely leaving bruises. They held his shoulders tightly, their wings shuddering, shocked by the onslaught of sensation. That could _not_ be what humans felt from an orgasm. It was far too powerful - it would have killed any mortal.

Gabriel’s hips bucked upwards, seeking friction, and several seconds later, he too underwent a rush of release. Losing his senses entirely, words escaped his lips in a yell, words which froze Beelzebub to their core and turned all sense of victory to ash.

“Beez, _God forgive me_ , I love you!”

The pressure that had been building in Gabriel’s lower body unravelled. Ah yes, he thought then, as some semblance of normal brain function returned, there was the messiness he had once turned his nose up at.

All was quiet. His heart attempted to return to a regular pace. _Thud-thud…thud-thud._

For a brief few seconds, his arms were full of clammy, panting demon, and Gabriel would have happily remained like that for hours, basking in the afterglow, placing little kisses on Beelzebub’s slack body. But they rose quickly out of his lap as if he was suddenly made of sharp knives, taking away their heat and the comfort of their touch. Avoiding his gaze, they turned away and walked towards a sliding door, moving hurriedly.

Before they silently disappeared into the next room, Gabriel noticed the pink, parallel scars on their naked back, next to one of their shiny wings. It looked as if one wing had been torn, and recently. Huh.

His arms felt deprived and empty without Beelzebub there. Honestly, though, some part of him was glad that the demon had not looked him in the eye, because his eyes were actually _stinging,_ and he afraid that he would embarrass himself by producing _tears,_ which he had only done once or twice in eight thousand years and _certainly_ did not intend to do now. The teasing would be relentless.

Alone in the office of the Lord of the Flies, sitting in their chair, sticky and covered in a fine layer of sweat, Gabriel steadied his breathing.

So _that_ had happened.

And he felt…odd. Kind of levelled-out. Extremes of violence and affection had left him calmer than he could have anticipated. Not at all panicked. There was a peace in him now that had not been there for a long time. Whether it was acceptance or shock, he was not sure yet, but it was still a relief. Things made more sense now; he could see why humans went in for this sort of thing.

The mindlessness of the whole experience had been surprisingly comfortable. It had been quite nice to submit and be used by someone, to not think anymore, or question why. Blindly saying yes, trusting, having faith - these were things he was familiar with. And there it was - the desperate truth - that he had unconsciously, unintentionally placed faith in a faithless being with no understanding of trust. He really was the biggest idiot in Heaven.

But, right here, in this moment, Gabriel was a happy idiot.

He probably should have been anxious about the possibility of other demons walking into the room and seeing him, exposed and despoiled as he was, but there was not a lot of room left for shame in Gabriel. There were distant, rowdy noises somewhere far away. The tournament was continuing, out there in Hell. The games went on.

Beelzebub came back into the office after a while, fully dressed and holding a neatly folded pile of pastel-coloured clothing. Those were _his_ clothes, the ones he had been wearing when he arrived in Hell. They also handed him a damp cloth, which he used to clean himself off.

Once again, Beelzebub’s expression was guarded. They continued to look anywhere but at him.

“Thank you,” Gabriel smiled, utterly oblivious. He resisted the temptation to ask if a second round of carnal relations was on the table. “So, how are humans not just doing that _all_ the time?” he wondered aloud, standing to get dressed. “I had no idea this crude flesh could produce such pleasure! I _never_ thought it would be like that _-_ I assumed it was all just sticky mess and lots of bumping together.”

The demon cleared their throat awkwardly, walking slowly to the other side of the room, away from him.

“I don’t think it _is_ exactly like that for humans,” Beelzebub said. “From what I’ve heard, sometimes they don’t enjoy it at all.”

“Huh.” Gabriel thought for a moment, pulling up his underwear. “Maybe it depends who you do it with. Someone who, well…someone you love.”

Across the room, Beelzebub stiffened. _Oh, Satan’s balls, he actually said it again._ They had been hoping desperately that they had misheard, that the archangel had said _anything_ else. Not love. Anything but that. _That_ was a game-changer on a completely different level.

Gabriel, finding his socks and vest among the pile of well-folded clothing, had not noticed the demon’s reaction to his casual use of the word. It had not stuck in his throat, particularly. It simply seemed the best word available to describe how he felt, right at that point in time. And surely Beelzebub had felt it anyway, in the heat of the moment - he had been leaking repressed adoration at the time, spilling like a broken tap.

“Aren’t you worried about what’s going to happen you now?” Beelzebub asked blandly, still facing away. “When you go back upstairs?”

He definitely should have been worried, Gabriel knew. But calm as he was, he managed to scrape together some pseudo-logic which seemed, right then, entirely reasonable. “Perhaps _nothing_ will happen,” he said, pulling up his trousers. “I mean, doing _that_ isn’t actually a sin. Angels don’t normally indulge, but there’s no actual _rule_ forbidding it. Even with demons. Mind you, they probably thought it was too obvious to write down something like _thou shalt not fornicate with the Enemy_. But it’s not written down. And Aziraphale-”

“Aziraphale went native,” Beelzebub said, emotionless. “You haven’t.”

“I mean before that,” Gabriel said. “All the earlier fraternising with Crowley.” He gestured at the picture on the wall of the snake demon, which was torn with pierce-marks, probably from darts or small knives. “The two of them were probably doing stuff just like what we did, for centuries. Aziraphale never Fell because of it, even before the going native thing. And, unlike that _traitor_ , I haven’t actually done anything to compromise Heaven’s interests.”

He was on a roll now. With logical reasoning like this, nothing could possibly go wrong.

“I’ve just been taking some…free time,” he decided, smiling and chuckling to himself. “I deserved to have a break from work, honestly. Things have been _stressful_ lately. Besides, they could never do without _me,_ up there. You seem to have forgotten just how important I am in Heaven. No, they could never do without…”

“Shut your mouth and go.”

The sudden venom in Beelzebub’s voice made Gabriel freeze. He had just been pulling on his coat, wings tucked away neatly in another metaphysical plane, and paused with one arm halfway into a sleeve. The demon still had their back to him, and their wings were motionless.

“Excuse me, what?” he said.

“I said, shut up and go.” Beelzebub had never sounded so cold to him.

“ _Go?_ ” Gabriel echoed, walking towards them. _“_ Ummm, what are you _talking_ about? I don’t even know the way, Beez.”

Beelzebub gritted their teeth. No, he didn’t know the way. And leaving him in the middle of Hell without a map? That might be going too far. Turning around, they grabbed his sleeve, snapped their fingers and miracled both of them to the secret entrance of Hell, the one where they had met several hours ago.

Shoving him into the lift, they stepped back. “There,” Beelzebub snapped, a cloud of frozen steam forming in the air. “Now go. And don’t call me _Beez._ ”

Silence.

Gabriel stared. Everything went cold. His face, which had been so blissful just seconds before, twisted in anger. If he had ever been guilty of any sin, it was wrath. That was what got him into this mess, after all: wrath for Aziraphale, a desire for revenge, the need to do anything - even work with a demon - in the hope that doing so could help achieve that revenge. It had been a downward spiral from there.

“I see how it is,” he breathed darkly, putting his hands firmly into his coat pockets. “You never even cared, did you? You just seduced me hoping I’d Fall.” When Beelzebub did not respond, he laughed grimly. “Tempting an archangel? Wow. They’ll probably give you a medal for that, down here, won’t they? Another one to stick on your lapel. Why don’t you get them to put my face on it?”

The demon looked away. “Yeah, butterfly,” they said, without conviction. “Maybe I will.”

“And I really fell for it, didn’t I?” Gabriel shouted, hands balled in fists inside his pockets. “I mean, _well done_ , Beez, truly! Top notch temptation. You were very convincing. That was _some_ long game you’ve been playing - all those phone calls, all that time you spent on our investigation. Ha!” he exclaimed. “I even bought you that beetle collection. I’m impressed. You’re one wily old devil!”

Gabriel would not stop. He could not stop. Their lack of reaction was _infuriating,_ when they had just broken his heart like that. He wanted to see _something_ in their eyes, even if all he got was a gloating smirk.

Beelzebub just looked incredibly tired all of a sudden. “Why are you still here?” they whispered.

It was funny, the thinness of the line between love and hate. Two extremes, yet apparently all that separated them was the space of a few angry moments. As the poem goes, Heaven hath no rage like love to hatred turnt.

“Do you know what, Beez?” Gabriel spat, seeing that he was failing to get through the demon’s mental defences. “If I Fall, I hope you’re _really_ happy about it. I hope it makes you feel _so blessed_ to see me brought low.” He slammed the button on the lift, felt the metal shell shudder, and the doors begin to creak. “And if I don’t Fall,” he yelled, “our collaboration is over anyway! _Over_ , do you hear me?”

Walking away as the lift doors shut, Beelzebub’s voice was quiet. “Loud and clear, Gabe.”

The doors shut. Red light bulbs flickered on.

Gabriel was panting, angry, full of too many conflicting urges. Some of those urges were violent. He punched the side of the lift, and the rickety, rusty contraption juddered alarmingly. It was very un-angelic behaviour, but he was well past caring about that now.

Returning to their office an hour later, having trudged through some of the coldest areas of Hell, and then some of the wildest parties, Beelzebub locked the door. The flies, who had been outside for some time now, had followed their master in and now landed on their hair and arms, sensing unusual levels of distress. No amount of ticklish feet, gentle grooming or buzzing seemed to rouse a reaction from the Prince of Hell.

Beelzebub leaned against the door, and spent some time staring at the desk chair. There was something glass which had smashed on the floor, and a bitter, acrid taste to the air.

Having undergone half an hour of consistent staring, the chair abruptly caught fire, burning bright blue, so violently that it was nothing but a pile of ash within minutes. The flies, agitated, buzzed louder and formed a swarm. Beelzebub never so much as blinked.


	8. Bite the apple.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions are asked. There are confessions.

_"Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest, so is my beloved…in his shade I took great delight and sat down, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.” - Song of Solomon 2:3_

**6000 years ago (more or less)…**

There was a storm brewing over Eden, the first storm of all.

Beelzebub had never seen this sky before, or storm clouds, or pretty much anything that was in the Garden. There were things which grew, things which flowed, things which made surprising sounds, things which crawled, flew, skittered past and leapt from tree to tree. The colours were many, and the smells assaulted their nose with their strength and newness. Eyes innocently met their eyes, small heart beats sounded amidst the verdant variety of the plants and tiny new creatures investigated each other with new curiosity.

Apparently, it was all Good, so Beelzebub was immorally obligated to despise all of it. Still, it was all quite _interesting._ That was something which could not be denied. Certainly, these new Creations had more flair than anything which came before.

Everyone downstairs had been yapping about what was going on above, and, like any good manager, Beelzebub had decided to go up and take a peek. A brief evaluation of the situation - humans being kicked out of paradise, the nasty-looking clouds overhead - had informed Beelzebub that Crawly had been successful in his mission to “make some trouble”. Very successful. They should promote him, make him Important up here, in this new place. _Earth,_ they remembered. That was what it was called.

According to Crawly’s report, a tree bearing fruit had been involved. Beelzebub wanted to see it first-hand, to know what the fuss was about. But there were many of these so-called _trees_ about, and the Prince of Hell had become rather distracted along the way by what was _in_ the trees, particularly the tiniest of the scuttling creatures. Some of them even had little wings, making pleasing humming noises when they came close. Insects, that was what they were. Beelzebub collected a few of the prettiest and set them gently onto their black robe.

Thunder rolled overhead. The grass was dry underfoot, but it soon wouldn’t be.

Beelzebub reached the edge of a clearing and stopped dead. Yes, that had to be the tree: heaving branches full of shiny red fruit, smelling of knowledge and sweetness. But it was not the tree, or its contents, which made Beelzebub stop and hesitate in the shadows.

There was someone there already, looking up at the fruit. An angel. An angel they _knew._

Gabriel.

Thankfully, he had his back to them. The Prince of Hell took a step back and leaned against the nearest tree at the edge of the clearing, where they were concealed by shade. Lurking like this was all part of the new _policy_. No outright fighting anymore, just subtle wiles, trying to outdo the other side without direct conflict. This new world was to become the new battlefield, for battles fought entirely in the background.

Until the End, of course. When the time was right, there would be a Great War to end all wars, and Hell would triumph. Beelzebub looked forward to that time.

Under the tree, Gabriel cocked his head and peered into the branches.

They had not seen the archangel’s broad shoulders and self-satisfied smirk since Before the Fall. It had been a thousand years, perhaps, maybe more. Beelzebub had changed beyond recognition, and not just in terms of appearance. Gabriel would probably not know them now, even if they stepped up behind him and coughed. But _he -_ he looked just the same, just as beautiful and infuriatingly arrogant as before, shining bright and glorious, like a star. Nothing in Eden could compare. All the most colourful flowers, the most luscious plants, the most graceful creatures, even the shiny-cased insects on Beelzebub’s robes - nothing compared to Gabriel’s radiance.

It was horrible, exquisite torture, being so enraptured, when they had spent so many centuries in Hell trying to forget this kind of admiration, trying to _hate_ Heaven with a fiery passion. It never came as easily to them as it did to some other demons - instead of anger, they mostly just felt emptiness. Bitter loss.

As the demon watched, unseen, Gabriel moved, and reached into the branches of the tree, twisting off an apple. Fascinated, Beelzebub could not tear their eyes away as he turned the fruit over in his hands. What was he thinking? Perhaps he was here for the exact same reason they were - just to see what the fuss was about.

The archangel lifted the apple to his face and gave it a small sniff.

 _Taste it,_ Beelzebub wanted to jeer. Silly angel. _Taste it, Gabriel._

He pressed his lips against the shiny skin of the fruit, and then abruptly drew it back. It dropped, landed on the soft grass and rolled several feet away. Gabriel, seeming to snap out of a trance, shrugged his shoulders and stretched his arms and his wings. There was a shiftiness to his expression, as if he was embarrassed to have even considered taking a bite of the forbidden fruit. And then, taking a few steps back and creating a gust with his huge white wings, he was airborne and gone, climbing into the sky.

Beelzebub sauntered into the clearing as he flew further away, smiling for the first time in what felt like centuries. While it was disappointing that he had not actually eaten it, the radiant idiot had clearly been thinking about it. Naughty angel. Bit of a hypocrite, was Gabriel, but apparently he still liked to _seem_ incorruptible. Soft grass tickled the tough soles of Beelzebub’s bare, infernal flame-roughened feet. They trudged over to the tree, picking up the fruit which Gabriel had dropped along the way and sat, cross-legged, under the heaving branches.

The thunder rolled again, and the very first drops of rain began to fall.

Somewhere else, upon the Eastern wall of Eden, another angel (minus a certain flaming sword) was lifting his wing to shelter a wily serpent from the ominous storm. Beelzebub, unaware of this, was watching as the archangel they had once adored became a white speck in a gloomy grey sky. Glittering, so far out of reach.

The insects they had collected skittered over their robes. Pleasant little things. Perhaps they would take these creatures back to Hell, use them to brighten up their lair a bit. Beelzebub pressed their tongue to the skin of the fruit, where Gabriel’s lips had been moments earlier, before taking a large bite, juice dripping onto their scarred chin.

One day, they mused, the forces of Hell would tear down all the beautiful, unreachable things of Heaven.

Several of the flies buzzed near Beelzebub’s ears as the rain started falling. Chewing the apple and admiring the shiny exteriors of some of God’s newest creations, Beelzebub smiled for a second time that day.

~#~

**Hopping back to the present…**

Arriving back home, Gabriel found himself completely immune to the tranquil atmosphere of Heaven.

When one has, in the last twenty-four hours, competed in a Hellish tournament, battled an archdemon, almost been destroyed by hellfire, engaged in carnal relations for the first time, then quarrelled heatedly with one’s new lover, it is rather difficult to achieve a sense of calm. The combination of adrenaline, ecstasy and frustration was really too much for Gabriel’s normally disciplined heart to take, and no amount of soothing white light or celestial elevator music could bring his pulse under control.

His fingernails, some of which were rimmed with dried black ichor, drummed repeatedly against the glass side of the lift. As the crystal doors silently swished open, he tried to bring himself under control.

Even with his sanity having utterly vanished, and the threat of Falling hanging over him like a dark cloud, appearances _still_ mattered. Unless the worst came to pass, and he plummeted to a terrible doom for his transgressions, he would still need to maintain an illusion of normalcy. That illusion required beaming smiles, a straightened back and a strategically high collar so no-one could see the bruises Beelzebub had sucked onto his neck. Totally normal. Here was an archangel with _nothing whatsoever_ to hide.

Other angels were serenely getting along with everyday tasks, moving orderly from place to place. Gabriel tried to look straight ahead as he walked towards Sandalphon’s office, convincing himself that he did _not_ look like someone who had been willingly ravished and debauched by a demon mere hours ago. When a young angel with curly blond locks and a very eager expression came running up to him, he nearly disintegrated with frustration.

“Sir, can I just have a moment of your time for…”

Gabriel patted his shoulder with a lot more force than was necessary. “I am _absolutely_ far too busy to listen right now,” he said, with a beaming smile so blindingly bright that it could have knocked a mortal senseless, and continued walking.

The younger angel, disappointed, put a hand up to where Gabriel had patted his shoulder, and was surprised to see traces of grime there. Black gunk of some kind, which smelt…infernal. Wow, the young angel thought. Archangel Gabriel must have been on _very_ important business, off battling the forces of Hell. Well, then, of course he would be too busy to be bothered. How silly to even ask!

Reaching Sandalphon’s office after that walk of shame was a desperate relief to Gabriel. Everyone’s eyes had seemed to bore into his very soul, seeing the corruption there. But _no._ He was _not_ corrupted, not at all. There were _reasons_ that he wasn’t. And why would God wait around, anyway? Surely if he was going to Fall, it would already have happened. Deciding to have a very long, very heartfelt pray later on, just in case, Gabriel opened Sandalphon’s door without knocking and strode inside.

Sandalphon, very startled by his door slamming open, instinctively re-organised some of the pages on his desk and continued rifling them as Gabriel approached.

“Sir!” he exclaimed, rather high-pitched. “What can I do for you?” Noticing the redness of Gabriel’s face and the dishevelled state of his hair, Sandalphon peered closer. “What happened to you?”

Gabriel forced a laugh.

“Happened?” he repeated. “Ha! Nothing _happened_ , Sandalphon, old friend. Nothing unholy or unprecedented at all. Nope. Nothing happened. So,” he continued, loudly, leaning one leg onto his underling’s desk and producing the vial of holy water which had been sitting in his coat pocket since…well, since Beelzebub miracled their clothes off. Ahem. “I need you to put this back in storage,” he said, banishing stirring mental images from his mind.

“In storage?” Sandalphon reached for the vial, noticing as he did so that Gabriel’s fingers were shaking, and that there was a sticky black substance under some of his fingernails.

“Yes, replace it in storage for me,” Gabriel told him. “And, uh, don’t expect to find any evidence of it being _removed_ from storage, because _technically_ I forgot to file the correct paperwork. You know how it is, I was just so busy, it entirely slipped my mind. So, you just put it back for me, there’s a good chap.” He got up abruptly to leave, ignoring Sandalphon’s completely baffled expression.

“Uh, sir?” Sandalphon said, holding the vial at arm’s length.

“Yes, Sandalphon?” Gabriel beamed another sugary, frustrated smile.

“Archangel Michael was looking for you, earlier. Did you manage to talk to her? It seemed quite urgent.”

Oh, wonderful. Gabriel’s toes curled up inside his shoes. “No,” he grimaced. “But I’ll go to see her now.”

“She said she’d wait in your office until you got back from your trip,” Sandalphon nodded, finding an envelope to slip the holy water vial into. “How did it go, by the way? Your trip?”

 _You wouldn’t understand._ “Wonderful,” he replied. “Very productive.”

As it turned out, Michael _was_ in his office, just as Sandalphon said she would be, and the archangel looked extremely smug. Michael being smug was never a good sign. Gabriel glanced at his desk, looking for any sign that the secret compartment had been discovered, with all the documents about his investigative association with Beelzebub.

It looked intact, but that was little reassurance when Michael was walking towards him with such a _superior_ expression.

“Follow me, Gabriel,” she said, and he had little choice in the matter.

Within minutes, he was sitting in front of a panel of four other archangels, and Michael was making a _presentation_ of sorts on a large screen, bringing up photos and one particularly exhilarating video, captured by a tech-savvy demon in the crowd, of a tournament in Hell. Michael still possessed her back-channel sources of information, apparently, even after the non-Apocalypse. She really had quite a lot of evidence - a coincidental absence from duties, a clever human computer program which could estimate a person’s height from a photograph, Gabriel’s uncharacteristically scruffy appearance in the present moment, and, most convincing of all, impeccable logic.

On the screen, a person with awful purple hair, a half-face mask and a tacky black coat was riding on the back of a huge dragon-shaped demon, ripping its wing. The other archangels in the room shuddered appropriately, given the distasteful sight of blood. Michael let the video play out a little bit longer, before pausing it and setting the remote control down with impossible levels of self-satisfaction. She smiled sweetly.

“Based on all the evidence I have just brought before us today, I have only one question for you, Gabriel.” He waited, keeping a fairly neutral expression. Michael pointed at the figure on the screen. “Is that you?”

Well, there was a bit too much coincidence about the whole thing to effectively claim ignorance. Besides, it appeared that Michael still knew nothing about the spies watching Aziraphale and Crowley, so perhaps it would be a good idea to give her this small victory, if only to put her off the trail of much worse transgressions.

“Yes,” he admitted. “That’s me.”

Uriel gasped. “ _Why_ , Gabriel?” she asked, stunned. “Why would you take an unrecorded absence from duty in order to play such a reckless, dangerous game in Hell? Where is the sense in that?”

Gabriel looked at the screen. It was paused at a particularly dramatic point in the match. He was dangerously close to the hellfire, standing his ground, and Leviathan was lunging at him. But, suspended in mid-air, Beelzebub was not far behind, flying towards the dragon demon, about to knock her sideways. Gabriel was suffused with warm, fluffy feelings, looking at the comparatively tiny Prince of Hell about to do battle with that huge, reptilian monster. All to protect him. To keep him safe. His demon.

And he had accused them of not caring. How could that be true, when they made him feel like this?

“Gabriel?” Michael was leaning towards him. “Explain yourself, please.”

Yes. He needed to explain. There were several valid lies which he and Beelzebub had rehearsed over the phone, in preparation in case their association was ever discovered. Training exercises, false alarms, secret plots, assassination attempts and the like. But…Gabriel was getting tired of lies. Especially the kind he was telling himself.

He looked at his colleagues, straightened his back, squared up and smiled, this time genuinely.

“All right. I’ll explain. I was in Hell because I have been fraternising with Lord Beelzebub,” he said frankly. “It all began right after the Apocalypse was called off, when that interoffice phone was installed. We kept talking, even after the ceasefire. Things went a bit haywire after that. We enjoyed talking to each other, it turned out.” Gabriel laughed at the silliness of the whole affair. “Oh, and a few hours ago, right after that match was done actually, we had sex,” he added.

Silence.

Despite being angry at Beelzebub, Gabriel really wished the Lord of the Flies had been there, at that specific moment. The demon would have enjoyed witnessing the shock on the archangels’ faces. Wide eyes, horrified open mouths, a collective inability to speak - it really was priceless.

It was nice to get some of the secrets off his chest. Honesty really _was_ the best policy.

~#~

There were questions for Beelzebub as well, an annoying number of them.

Luvart, “The Masked Butterfly”, the unknown demon who had defeated Leviathan in combat, was a new favourite among the forces of Hell. It made for a good story, for sure: an underdog fighter, one who had _not only_ beaten a Prince of Hell, but won the favour of Lord Beelzebub, suddenly disappears, never to be heard of again. If the average intelligence of the demonic population was a little higher, Beelzebub mused, they might have noticed how suspicious that disappearance was. Instead, everyone was just making ludicrous guesses about Luvart’s real identity, most of them pointing fingers at low-ranked, tall demons with strong jawlines, none of whom made any effort to deny the rumours.

Anyone brave enough to actually ask Beelzebub who their masked companion was, received a blank, stony response which gave absolutely no hints whatsoever, and severely discouraged further questions. Even Dagon, pestering Beelzebub for close to an hour with (what she imagined were) subtle lines of questioning, received very few solid clues, and then a very stern telling-off.

Sharing a drink with Hastur days later, Dagon did, however, hazard a guess about her leader.

This was during the final phase of the tournament, which involved a time-honoured favourite among demonic games. One very unfortunate demon, usually someone who had been disgraced recently, was dressed up as an angel, given a head start and then chased around the wild, lower Circles of Hell by competitors until one finally caught up. The chase had been going on for days by this stage, and many of the competitors had given up or been discorporated either by each other or the various dangers roaming about down in the lower Circles. It seemed that this particular ‘angel’ had selected a very good hiding place.

Waiting for a result of the competition, the Dark Council and their associates were carousing around the main arena. Hastur and Dagon had been placing bets and gloating about their earlier victory over Asmodeus’ Ball-Playing team. Looking at Beelzebub, who was sitting on their throne but not participating in the revelry, instead doing paperwork on their knees, Dagon frowned.

“They’ve been acting strange lately,” she said.

Hastur shrugged. “I haven’t noticed,” he said. “In what way strange?”

“Withdrawn.” Dagon was a loyal servant. She liked to notice these things.

Hastur, who was significantly less noticeable about such things, pulled a face. “Lord Beelzebub is _always_ withdrawn,” he pointed out. “That’s more or less their default setting, Dagon. Withdrawn, cold, bored. You know.”

“Nah,” said Dagon. “This is different. I think they miss Luvart.”

Hastur, who had heard far too much theorising about bloody _Luvart_ lately, rolled his eyes and did not bother to argue with Dagon, who was a terrible person to have arguments with. He missed Ligur, more than he cared to admit. When they had argued, usually the arguments were short, and ended with friendly agreement and lots of laughing. Sighing sadly, Hastur accidentally conjured a small explosion of maggots.

Everyone around him, inconvenienced by small crawling things, complained loudly.

Lord Beelzebub ignored the maggot-related uproar, while scribbling down a report, actively trying _not to think_. When thoughts did enter their head, they were always of the Gabriel-shaped variety, and those were not helpful. If the archangel appeared in Hell, recently Fallen, then they would run to his side and deal with the problem _then_ , but until that moment came, they were trying _not_ to think about him or obsess over his angry words.

For a few moments, they did not even notice, but louder cheering drew Beelzebub’s attention eventually. There was some activity down in the arena, a general sense of movement. Yes. Someone had won the final competition. They finished off their report, signed it in curling, glowing script, and tucked it into their suit.

Down in the arena, the victor threw her captured ‘angel’ down, a bloody mess in white robes with a tacky golden halo nailed viciously to their beaten head. The other demons applauded with enthusiasm as the ‘angel’ was kicked and let out a pathetic, exhausted moan. Their feet were torn to shreds. Asmodeus was laughing, a sound as irritating as dragging fingernails against glass.

Outwardly, Beelzebub did not react, not even to clap half-heartedly.

Inside, they were breaking.

That could be Gabriel - _their_ Gabriel - lying there, torn and Fallen. And it would be their fault, for leading him astray. Yes, he came of his own will, a will which had not taken much direct temptation to break, but if he Fell now, it would still be _their fault._ It was what Beelzebub had wanted, all along - it was the dark fantasy which had driven every decision lately. Getting Gabriel down here, permanently, to forever sit by their side, to belong to them, physically and spiritually. To tear him from Heaven and drag him through the mire, for refusing to Fall _with_ them, back when words like ‘love’ would not have made them freeze in fear and disbelief.

But was that what they wanted, really? To break Gabriel’s spirit? To kill his light? Falling would remove everything that made him what he was - beautiful, radiant, arrogant and infuriating, yet surprisingly, horribly affectionate at times. Maybe not immediately, no. But after centuries of torture and resentment, the misery would eventually set in. All his sunshine and glory would fade, replaced with nothing but bile and bitterness.

Bitterness demands to be spread around, you see.

And having heard Gabriel actually say it out loud - _I hope you’re really happy about it. I hope it makes you feel so blessed to see me brought low. -_ Beelzebub knew the truth. It was not what they wanted. They _never_ wanted to look down into Gabriel’s bright purple eyes and see nothing but resentment and death staring back.

The archangel belonged exactly where he was, safe with all the other beautiful, unreachable things in Heaven.

It was very un-demonic, to admit that. And it hurt, more than anything.

Unable to watch the fake angel being tortured, Beelzebub slipped away quietly. They trudged through the damp corridors, crowded corners and broken places of Hell, before finding the correct elevator. Getting in, they pressed the button for the lowest Circle. The doors rattled shut.

Beelzebub pressed their forehead against the doors as the lift descended slowly, shakily, deep into the bowels of the Inferno, heating up and then abruptly cooling down well below freezing.

Reaching the bottom of the elevator shaft, the doors opened again, and Beelzebub, barely acknowledging their surroundings, shuffled out onto the ice surrounding Lucifer’s favourite sulking location. It was a large fortress, surrounded with exaggerated flames and nasty-looking statues of the Lord of the Inferno himself, standing in the middle of the ice field, giving off a stink of pure menace.

Slipping and sliding, too miserable to unfurl their wings, Beelzebub crossed the ice and walked over a spiky drawbridge. Satan liked making himself unavailable for reports, refusing to use a phone or fax machine or anything useful. It probably amused him, to watch Beelzebub or some other hapless idiot skid across the ice every time they delivered a memo.

Lucifer, a far cry from the Morningstar he once was, lay reclined on the settee in the middle of a huge hall, all horns and thick red skin and lazy sulking. He blew fire from his nose, which Beelzebub thought was ridiculous, but they said nothing, and passed him the report before sitting on a chair opposite the hulking Ultimate Adversary.

“So, this tournament idea of yours was a success, then?” he grouched, after scan-reading the first page.

“Yezzz, my lord. There have been no more riotzz zzince preparationzz began.”

“Hrmph.” Lucifer always preferred to hear bad news. It was just his nature. He read the rest and then eyed Beelzebub meanly. “How’s the wing?” he growled.

It was long healed, but Beelzebub felt the scars sting just a bit at the memory of claws tearing into their flesh. Holding his gaze, unafraid of more physical pain, they just shrugged.

“It’zzz tolerable.”

“Hmm.” Lucifer read some more of the report, tossing the bone of some dead thing into a nearby fire. Sparks licked upwards, hot and multitudinous. “Consider yourself spared, for now, lieutenant,” he grunted. “This tournament business was a clever idea. One of your better clever ideas.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

He glanced up, clocking their perturbed expression. “Was there anything else?”

Beelzebub hesitated. Normally, they would have just left as soon as possible, before Lucifer became bored or irritated with their presence, and decided to punish them in some senseless way. The two of them had never been anywhere near _chatty_ terms. But today was a strange day. They had realised just how boring life had been, these last few thousand years.

“I did have a quezztion,” Beelzebub said slowly.

“Well, hurry up with it.” Lucifer reclined, setting his horned head back on a silk pillow.

“How did it feel…to lozze Lilith?”

For a moment, he was still, and silent. The name of his long-lost love from Before the Fall reverberated in the cavernous room, as if by invoking her name some terrible evil had been summoned. Then, glaring, Lucifer sat up. Beelzebub held his gaze insolently as the Ultimate Adversary loomed large and menacing, like someone else’s nightmare.

“You’re treading on thin ice, lieutenant, using that name here,” he glowered. His expression flashed then, with something more curious than threatening. Large, red nostrils flared as he sniffed. “You smell…different,” he commented. “And why ask such a question?” He threw back his head and laughed suddenly. “Could it be that you’ve fallen in love, Beelzebub?”

Of course Satan was laughing, because he knew his lieutenant very well. Their heart was made of stone. Nothing could interest or excite them anymore, not since their silly rebellions, which, in his opinion, were really motivated more out of boredom than any particular fire in their spirit.

Shaking with cruel mirth, losing interest in his underling’s insolence, Lucifer looked back at the report, so he failed to notice Beelzebub’s eye twitching as they came to a very important decision.

“Of courzzze not,” they lied.


	9. Meeting Point E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters were meant to be ONE chapter, but as usual, I got carried away, and had to split one extremely long chapter into two.  
> Enjoy! :)

_“There will be a shelter to give shade from the heat by day, and refuge and protection from the storm and the rain.” - Isaiah 4:6_

**Several days later…**

When the silver note showed up on Beelzebub’s desk, folded into a clean white envelope, Dagon noticed it before her superior.

“I think there’s something from _the opposition_ in that, sir,” she muttered, eyeing the offensively bright paper as if it was likely to explode in a gush of holy water.

Meanwhile, although Beelzebub gave no outward sign of being flustered, every instinct in their body was primed to leap past every other message and memo to tear open the shiny envelope.

“I wonder what those idiotzz could pozzibly want,” they shrugged instead.

It was, in reality, just a week since the tournament, but those long days had been made up of numb, lifeless centuries of waiting. Managing the clean-up process after the tournament was a bothersome bore. Assigning cleaning crews to various areas and signing off files on discorporations was definitely _not_ inspiring work. It failed to provide a distraction from the cavernous, empty void of dread in Beelzebub’s chest. Waiting was the worst part, knowing that at any moment Gabriel’s wings might have caught fire, that he might have started plummeting downwards, tumbling through the brutal, hollow abyss between metaphysical planes. Beelzebub had been staring at the interoffice phone, listening for the smallest scrap of news from Upstairs, hoping for _anything at all_ to indicate that the stupid archangel was alive, at least.

Pride got in the way of actually phoning Upstairs, but the temptation to storm right up to the pearly gates and demand admission became stronger with every passing hour.

Having gone through some of the day’s tasks with Dagon, just to avoid seeming suspiciously eager about a missive from Heaven, Beelzebub waited impatiently as their underling lingered, talking about getting a new desk chair for the office.

“Shame about the old one, catching fire like that,” the Under-Duke said, with a slight edge in her voice.

“Yezzz, a great shame,” Beelzebub agreed, narrowing their eyes at Dagon. “Wazz there anything else?”

“No,” said Dagon, in a tone which suggested that, while there was _plenty_ she wanted to say, the demon knew far better than to try questioning her superior.

“Then get back to work,” Beelzebub snapped, more sharply than was necessary. They waved pointedly towards the door.

Dagon walked slowly to the exit, paused, turned back and fidgeted hesitantly. But then she clearly changed her mind again and shook her scaly head before leaving without another word. Lord Beelzebub, unmoved by their underling’s concern, shut the door quickly.

Losing all control, they practically vaulted across the desk to snatch up the silver envelope. The note even smelt just a bit like Gabriel, they thought, pressing the paper to their nose. There were fresh hints of ozone and clean fabric from it. The writing was in glittery pink ink, which was in equal parts ridiculous and wonderful. Silly angel. Silly, beautiful angel.

Landing on Beelzebub’s head as a comforting weight of legs and wings, Adze buzzed gently. The Lord of the Flies reached up to stroke the queen fly, reading and re-reading the simple words:

_Meeting point E. To discuss traitors. - G_

Although it was concerning that he had not simply used the phone, as he usually did when discussing their joint surveillance of the traitors, at least he was _alive._ At least he was still apparently where he belonged, in Heaven.

The Lord of the Flies would never stoop to anything as horrifying as an actual _prayer_ , but they were tempted, just for the smallest fraction of a brief moment, to thank God. And demons usually never thanked anyone for anything.

~#~

‘Meeting Point E’ referred to one of many locations around London where Aziraphale and Crowley were known to meet each other, before gallivanting around and fraternising among the humans. Knowing these meeting locations had made surveillance more straightforward for the pairs of agents assigned to watch over them, especially when Crowley performed speedy evasive manoeuvres in the Bentley and managed to shake off pursuers.

As for the name, there had been a lengthy conversation over the phone - an argument, really - about selecting more imaginative code names for the various locations, but Gabriel and Beelzebub had eventually settled on simple letters of the alphabet. It was much easier than arguing over a code which each of them seemed to change every few minutes.

Meeting point E, specifically, was a bench in St James’ Park, overlooking a duck pond.

Incidentally, it was raining.

Given that this was England, and mid-autumn, the rain did not come as a surprise to any of the humans in the park on that occasion. However, Beelzebub was unused to contemplating the fickle nature of Earthly weather, and came unprepared, without a coat or even a hood to speak of. Hell could not boast much seasonal variation, so it was not a habit of theirs to consider such things.

Approaching the agreed-upon location, their shaggy black hair was pasted to their forehead, and the rain soaked through the demon’s navy suit and made them shiver. Any humans passing the odd-looking figure with the red sash and the fly hat found themselves quickly affected by a sudden onslaught of crippling, existential dread. They all explained this away by blaming the poor weather, because blaming things on the weather is an excellent coping mechanism around paranormal occurrences. It makes everything far more comprehensible.

Beelzebub spotted Gabriel through the rain before he spotted them. He was under a large grey umbrella, sitting on the bench mentioned in the note. As they approached, Beelzebub was reminded unwittingly of the Garden of Eden, and the cool feeling of the first raindrops of that storm. They had lurked in the shadows back then, observed him from afar, tasted the apple he dropped.

So long ago. Things had changed.

Now, walking towards the archangel, Beelzebub had never been so terrified of facing the consequences of their actions, either good or bad. As for Gabriel’s intentions here, there had been nothing in the note to suggest that this would be a social meeting. Chances were, he would probably still be crabby after their last interaction. Perhaps a fight was more likely than some kind of reconciliation. Or perhaps this would be just a business meeting. That would be manageable. Easier, even.

Lifting his head, Gabriel spotted them trudging towards him, and scrambled to his feet.

Beelzebub, surprised by his sudden movement, stopped a few feet from the bench. Hands in suit pockets, all damp hair with a gradually drooping hat, they peered through the rain to examine him. Gabriel was warmly dressed, and dry under the umbrella. There was a weariness about his expression, but he seemed…fine. Uninjured. Unpunished.

“Beelzebub,” he greeted them warily.

There was just a tiny hint of warmth in his voice, but it had a power all of its own. Part of Beelzebub desperately wanted to flee from that warmth, and all its implications. Gabriel’s lips had formed only their name, but those same lips had also spoken words like ‘I love you’, and Beelzebub could _feel_ the affection radiating from him. It was deep in their blood and bones, the desire to be near to him, and yet they were terrified of what these new _feelings_ were doing to mess up their head.

“Gabriel,” they replied, completely broken inside but managing to sound neutral. Kind of. “Thou hast not Fallen.”

“No,” he said, looking down at himself as if reassuring himself of that fact. “It would appear that merciful God has chosen to turn a blind eye to my indiscretions.”

The Almighty, merciful? That was garbage, and Beelzebub’s nose wrinkled instinctively at the very suggestion. But they were also completely tongue-tied. What could they possibly say? _I’m relieved? I couldn’t be further from disappointed? I might have run naked through Heaven ringing a bell and angrily proclaiming your innocence, if you had Fallen?_

They settled for saying nothing at all, really. “Hrmm,” Beelzebub muttered.

The rain sloshed down around them, icy and drenching. A group of humans passed by wearing bright yellow coats, talking loudly and laughing. A dog barked at the ducks.

Gabriel extended his arm, holding the umbrella awkwardly. It was evidently his first time using such an object. There was even a price tag still dangling from the handle of the useful human invention. Beelzebub hesitated, but the rain was cold, and under the shelter of grey plastic, the archangel looked so very warm and inviting.

Under the umbrella, they both sat, side by side, on the bench.

Rain drummed over their heads. The bench was wet, and chilly, but Beelzebub was already drenched, so it hardly mattered. For a while, neither of them said anything. There was a bit too much that could be said, and none of it came easily.

Gabriel spoke first. “Ummm,” he mumbled, uncharacteristically quiet. “You should probably know, I did, uh…tell the other archangels that I, uh…that we…” The archangel gestured in a vague, sweeping motion towards their nether regions.

Blinking, Beelzebub gaped at him. “Are you _inzzane?_ Why would you…?”

“It felt like the right thing to do,” he said. There was even a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. It would appear the idiot was actually _proud_ of himself.

“Ha!” Beelzebub was unable to believe what they were hearing. “Zzzo…how did they react?”

Gabriel shifted and chuckled. “They don’t know what to do about me, actually,” he said, his voice much closer now to its former, arrogant tone. “Nothing like this has ever happened before, so they don’t have a precedent for how to deal with it. And they’ve been _searching_ , let me tell you, for anything in the rulebooks about lying with the Enemy. If it had been any other angel, I suppose a demotion and some form of punishment would be in order, but this is _me_ we’re talking about.” He laughed, rather pompously. “They can’t demote _me._ I’m far too valuable. And it would be a major embarrassment, if anyone knew about it, so they’re keeping it quiet, off the records.” He glanced at Beelzebub. “Officially, I’m taking _time off_ right now, while they figure out what to do with me. I think they’re still hoping God casts me down, but until then, they’re at a loss.”

Well. All of that was unexpected. Perhaps especially the part about time off. Beelzebub imagined that Heaven had a very narrow attitude towards impromptu holidays. They struggled to develop a coherent thought about the whole mess.

“You’re full of zzurprises, Gabriel,” was all they could think to say.

He nodded, strangely enthusiastic. “I _have_ been surprising myself lately,” he said. “It’s very odd.” But there was a glint in his purple eyes, as if the oddness was not at all unpleasant.

Beelzebub watched him, amazed at the change in his attitude. Gone completely rogue, it seemed. Barely a month ago, Gabriel had been flustered at the mere thought of committing the mildest of sins, getting defensive at the smallest suggestions that his actions were questionably disobedient. And now, here he was, confidence totally restored, as calm and as self-assured as ever before. It suited him. Something in him had to be broken. _I did that._ Angels could not commit indiscretions and remain calm about it. And demons could not feel affection, so something in Beelzebub was clearly broken too. _You did that._

“Just zzo you know,” they said, quiet and awkward. “I haven’t told anyone. About anything.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t gloat to your boss about seducing me?”

Beelzebub met his gaze seriously, so he would know, once and for all, that they were being entirely sincere. “No,” they said, in a gravelly, authoritative tone which permitted no questions. “Dezzpite what you think, I never will. If our secret ever getzz out, it won’t be because of me.”

That confession hung in the space between them. _Our secret._ Not his. Theirs as well. Gabriel’s expression softened, and Beelzebub could not stand the brightness of his broad smile, so they looked into their lap, clenching their hands into fists next to their legs. There it was, out in the open. Beelzebub had admitted it now, more or less; Gabriel mattered more to them than achieving a victory for Hell. They were placing his wellbeing _above_ doing their own job. For someone with very little life beyond their job, that was saying something.

“Thank you, Beez,” he said, his voice husky and overcome with affection. The niceness of it should have been disgusting, but instead, the coldness of the rain just seemed a bit less cold.

And then Gabriel moved, shifting the handle of the umbrella from one hand to the other. Their legs pressed together, side by side, and _that_ was a lot warmer. The archangel put his arm around the Prince of Hell and leaned in to kiss their damp, cool cheek. When Beelzebub did not protest, he kept doing it, moving from their cheek to their forehead and pressing his lips gently on their closed eyelid. It was completely different to the way they had kissed each other before - loving, as opposed to lustful. Gabriel’s aura thrummed with affection. And, although it was pleasant, Beelzebub quickly became uncomfortable with the horrible, fluffy sensations in their chest.

“Um…zzzo,” they said, clearing their throat. “Why did you zzummon me here, butterfly? For zzomething other than smooching, I hope?”

Gabriel removed his face from their face, but kept his arm around their shoulders. Beelzebub did not complain.

Although neither being was consciously aware of any change, large purple flowers had miraculously sprouted around the bench. Because the instantaneous growth of plant life was impossible to logically explain, none of the humans noticed it. Anyone within several hundred feet of the bench, however, did suddenly feel much more positive about the rain.

“They moved the phone out of my office,” Gabriel was explaining, shifting the umbrella to tip some of the water off. “Not because they know anything about our surveillance operation, mind you - they just don’t want to make it easy for me to communicate downstairs. And we have business to discuss, so I figured we should meet up somewhere.”

Beelzebub leaned back against the solid pressure of his arm. It was interesting, the thought of the two of them having so many secrets, binding their fates together. They were starting to understand why Crowley had enjoyed this kind of behaviour. It made everything feel personal, rather than just part of the job.

“After our lazzt converzzation,” they said, deadpan and raspy, “I wazz not sure you wanted to continue our businezzz.”

“Well, I do,” Gabriel said. “Have you called off your agents?”

“No. Have you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But it will be difficult to direct the operation while Michael is watching me so closely. It might be a good idea to put it on pause, for now.”

“Very well,” Beelzebub shrugged, rather unconcerned. “We’ll take a break, review our findingzz.” In over two months of surveillance, Crowley and Aziraphale never appeared to be planning anything. They were using their newfound freedom to be as lazy and carefree as possible, and showed no obvious signs of changing that behaviour. Allowing the traitors to go unobserved for a few weeks would probably not result in disaster.

Something occurred to Beelzebub. “If you’re being invezztigated,” they said to Gabriel, “how can you be sure they aren’t watching you right now?”

He blinked and looked around surreptitiously. “Huh,” he said. “I didn’t think of that.” A blush coloured his cheeks as he considered being seen with his arm around a demon. “I hope they’re not.”

Beelzebub revelled in his embarrassment. Making Gabriel flustered was familiar, entertaining territory. They leaned in, mischievous. “Thou wazzt not ashamed to _tell_ all the other feather-brained prudes about the naughty thingzz you got up to, Gabe,” they said, slipping a hand onto his leg, feeling him tense up at the contact. “You weren’t so zzquirmy then. Why not give them a bit of a show?” Beelzebub leaned their head on his shoulder, breathing against his neck. Beneath the fabric of his jumper and the soft wool of his scarf, that exposed skin was oh-so tempting. “Are you zztill sensitive here, where I bit you?” they buzzed, reaching to tug the scarf loose.

“No,” Gabriel said unconvincingly, all coiled up like a tight spring.

“Are you sure?” they said, breathing him in. “Hmmm, you zzmell good.”

“Well, _you_ smell terrible,” he muttered. “Fiend.”

“Cheeky angel. I’ll have to punish you for that.” Beelzebub lunged forward and started nibbling at his jaw.

“Stop it, Beez,” Gabriel tried to shrug them off, but the demon went for his ear instead, their tongue doing circling motions which made him shiver from every hair follicle to the tips of his toes. And their hand had drifted a little too far up his leg for comfort. Mortified, he glanced at some passers-by, who were not trying very hard to avert their eyes. “The humans are ogling us,” he groaned. “ _Ogling_ , you hear? This is _not_ appropriate behaviour.”

He considered performing a frivolous miracle in order to redirect the humans’ attention, but disliked to think what Michael would read into that receipt. It was none of her business, what he was doing with Beelzebub, and despite his streak of honesty earlier, he really preferred to keep the specific details of this entanglement to himself. The location was not ideal for miracle-working either, given proximity to Aziraphale and Crowley. The last thing Gabriel needed was for the archangels to start thinking he was working with those traitors. Being criticised for things he _had_ done was one thing. Being accused of treason would be a completely different matter.

With effort, he restrained Beelzebub, using his free hand to grasp both of their wrists, almost dropping the umbrella in the process. “Stop it, demon, now or I’ll smite you,” he threatened. The threat was entirely empty, practically a vacuum.

Beelzebub smiled. “I’m very scared,” they said sarcastically, but offered no resistance. “Calm down, butterfly, I’ll not defile you in front of a bunch of humans.”

“Glad to hear it,” Gabriel grumbled. “Now focus, _please_. We need to talk about the traitors.”

He released the demon’s thin wrists and they casually sat back down in a slump of bony limbs. Unable to stop himself, he considered how light the demon seemed; it would be easy to pick them up, if he ever desired to.

“What is there to discuss?” Beelzebub asked, folding their arms and looking out over the duck pond. “We’ve detected some strange patterns in their behaviour over the course of the investigation, but nothing to provoke particular alarm.”

Gabriel pursed his lips. “I’ve been thinking, though...”

“Oh?” The demon raised an eyebrow. “Not a promising zztart.”

“Hilarious.” He rolled his eyes. “Just listen. I was thinking about _why_ Aziraphale did what he did. It never made any sense to me - why would he think averting Armageddon was for the greater Good? It was going to be the ultimate victory for Good, finally settling thousands of years of conflict, and he just threw that aside, for what? It seemed so _stupid._ ”

“First, sunshine, Armageddon would have been the ultimate victory for _uzz_ , not you. And second, your renegade angel went native. We’ve talked about thizz.” Beelzebub shrugged, regarding him with an extremely annoying, condescending expression. “I don’t zzee the confusion.”

“That’s your answer for _everything,_ isn’t it?” Gabriel sighed. “He ‘went native’. Fine, but what does that even _mean_? Eating gross matter? Standing in lines? Walking smelly animals around on leads?” These, to Gabriel, seemed to be the defining qualities of humanity. “Did just being among the mortals do it? Or,” and here he looked intensely at his demonic counterpart, “is it something to do with your people?”

“ _My_ people?”

“Demons. Being around angels.” He leaned closer to Beelzebub. The umbrella tipped, dripping streams of rainwater onto the bench next to them. “You’ve _changed_ me,” he accused the demon.

Beelzebub looked away. One of their knees started jumping anxiously. If he had not known better, Gabriel might have described their face as _guilty._ But that was impossible. As impossible as a demon taking a bath in holy water.

“Thou hast changed me, too,” the Lord of the Flies said darkly.

Gabriel blinked, rather taken aback by that admission. Obsessed recently by his own developing imperfections, he had not even considered that Beelzebub, an already flawed, Fallen creature, might be just as affected by their association.

It was quite selfish, he realised, that he had not thought of it from their point of view. Despite his angelic nature, Gabriel was actually quite a selfish being. He frequently thought of his own glory and perfection before thinking about anything else, and had done so for millennia without anyone in divine management taking particular note, because his interests always happened to align harmoniously with those of Heaven. Some of his interests, now, were clearly _not_ Heavenly in the slightest, and the archangel’s self-centred tendencies were becoming more obvious as a result.

But, being in love, Gabriel made a small effort to exert a degree of self-awareness.

“Sorry,” he said, not sure why.

Beelzebub said nothing, their arms crossed even tighter across their chest. They looked so cold, and their rain-damp face had been balmy and cool under his lips. Gabriel resisted the ridiculous urge to lift the Prince of Hell into his lap to wrap his coat around their chilly body. He tried to focus on the matter at hand.

“Perhaps,” Gabriel said eventually, “we could just ask the traitors directly.”

“Ask them what, zzpecifically?”

“Why were they so determined to save all of this?” He gestured outward, beyond the edge of the grey umbrella, towards the massive, chaotic, messy expanse which was the Earth.

**Author's Note:**

> Be a dear and leave kudos! <3


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